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Tag Archives: Andrew Shields
for Andrew DeBoo “My goat is gone,” said God. “Well, that’s too bad,” said Abel. “Can you find it, please?” God asked. Said Abel, “I don’t want to be a cad, but you know that I can’t leave my task … Continue reading
The river turns; the wood piles up, a bonfire waiting to start. So many trunks and twigs and branches, and not a single match. The water will not carry them to any mountaintop. They will not be a burning signal … Continue reading
When it was the choir boy’s turn to sing, he had something to say first, in a language that he’d learned, and everybody heard. He’d forgotten what he was called. Was his name Gordon? Was his name Walt? Sweating by … Continue reading
The fenceposts drink the water from both sides. One is flowering. The sunbirds sip at pistils and stamens; ravens wait for the almonds. It burns in the sudden flames of suicides. Andrew Shields lives in Basel, Switzerland. His book Thomas … Continue reading
The tinkling bell of the neighbor’s clock strikes behind the wall: eleven. Only at night can it be heard. Even the ticking of our own clocks fades by day in the noise of children and adults, calling from room to … Continue reading
My tricycle carried me into the street; the Cadillac stopped inches away. Years passed, and our station wagon headed home from the dump, the back seat down, with me squatting behind the driver’s seat. A speeding Pinto overlooked a light … Continue reading