Valerie Wohlfeld

Walking the sea, I think of the small diaspora of the hermit crab, and the unshackled shell. I think of the sealed spiral, niche and cupola the nautilus crafts as if the ether windowed spirit level. I think of the mollusk that lets the coffined pearl, blind eye white as albumen”grow. Walking . . . . Continue Reading »

Love the lovely boomerang remands, in command and countermand, circumnavigations that sang exile and reply out of the waiving hand. The little hertz of heartbeat (or the singing voice in graph) so necessary, so obsolete like the dead’s last telegraph. Love the lovely boomerang, mahogany curved . . . . Continue Reading »