Chris Hosea Spring bouquets throng The Frigidaire. Spring is The oldest virgin going. Mild Vandals paint subway escalators blue, and I am Lifted to street level like a package marked THIS WAY UP. I have presents for you all naked under the flagpole. Somewhere, someone is listening to Metallica against his will. ‘Enter Sandman.’ Hooded initiates can’t tell us what they know. Remind me of dizzy pinwheels Of flowers, old mansions on...

Chris Hosea Talk ran into twilight, then stopped. A hidden charm was taking shape above branches and power lines, warding off selfless sleep and leaving me to brood on a bolus of hope and pain. Alcohol helped, and rubbing. Each drumbeat and flower seemed a suggestion that if not taken lightly could lead to a permanent lifestyle change: a journey to Rome, or learning jujitsu. When constellations showed their arms in the east, I was...