On the bus to Northampton from Amherst I was sitting across from an old man with the wrecked blue eyes of a sunken mariner. Eyes so wet and blue and seen-through as any screen-door of the deep-south ever was, that to be caught looking into them was to be trapped in history itself. He caught me looking into them all right, and I was stunned … Continue reading Connolly Ryan Poems, Day 4: “Bus-ride In A Bottle”