Joyces

This tree in our backyard (in the hills and ravines of Ithaca): stillness.
Forthcoming, an iambic appreciation of Passchendaele and Robert Briffault.
Joyce Kilmer's living went STOP at the Battle of the Marne, in 1918.
There is imagining that at the moment the bullet vaporized his cranialia he wast rewriting the poem of arboria by which he was vaporized by rebuke and doggerel, perhaps to speak of a more carnal form of love; perhaps to think of its eighteen blackbirds.
Gulley Jimson's perishing blows into his wits a blood-pink vision of white walls, carrying into the darkness a last kiss of beginning.
Nora speaketh "yes," because by that point James Joyce had realized that the grammar of Dublin could not be spoken, as so he had hoped, as so in a way he had seen the ways in that city words work to build harmony.