Richard Greenfield

began with paper arguments, wipe-away lines crossed at the cardinal x of the low table, the surface the oily luster that absorbed the cotton-colored catalog light, began, actually then, with symmetry; the ragged tour entered a hall of empty pedestals, …

                          Self-hatred coils eventually upon itself-    the warning rattle is without context, separated from the dead snake in the path                  now gone, the rattle snapped off and slid into my pocket, inutile to the fang; two years               living on a road …