Today, some photos from the Lower 9th Ward. I have done some drafting about this experience in New Orleans, but the lines aren’t coming together in a cohesive way yet, so I will just share a few lines that are part of a sort-of sonnet that is emerging…
Rust still crawls up wrought iron railings like a rash
that old song about the river rolling
stuck like a deep bass hum on the back of the tongue.
Water took it. No one has yet to give it back.