The strip malls are endless,false summits stretching out oneafter the other, but we keep driving, determined to escape the brand control. The rumor is that you just keep goinguntil the parking lots turn to soilthat runs right to the edge of the road,that you can walk in damp clayglomming onto your feet as if it had found something kindred,that you can sink your hands into the warmthof it … Continue reading Sunday Driver by Mark Dunbar
Beside the driveway to the mental home wherethey’ve got my brother,keen purposeful faces truant from theirafflictions bow downas if fallen from a height,hands in earth like seedsmisstrewn, I would say,but for him, but for myself. Cut grass and rectangular flower beds,red tulips in a row— would-be hosannas that pleadfor salvation instead.They’re streaked orange, yellow and purple,bend long stems like bows.“Parrot tulips,” mother says.“There’s virus in the … Continue reading The Visit by Mark Dunbar
