Straight out of Pliny, I grant you, but true nonetheless: I was in Room 30 of the National Gallery last Wednesday, when a pigeon walked in on finicky toes, flicking her button eyes from sour Martha to slumped Christ to … Continue reading →

They opened his coffin and found what remained of him, supine, claw marks on the lid’s underside, and remembered he’d been cataleptic. Don’t think of him waking, whispering, of his eyes opening, re-opening, of his fingers tracing the satin cocoon, … Continue reading →