Poetry. We gather in this place where/ we may rest: bless'd, assured/ by the old stories, the old, old stories/ of unseen things above, of dove-wing'd seraphs,/ fire-curl'd cherubs, angel-headed hipsters,/ manic titans of flesh and canvas and all,/ of men whose splattered, large dreams/ cerulean blues and carmine,/ urine yellows hunting orange/ haunt our timid steps and slow,/ our furtive way, our black-swath'd forms. Saddlestapled chapbook.