power was not restored yet when i got to work this morning. sweltering through an interminable meeting, i regarded with great concern the sweat beads ripening in the forehead of this pompous safety officer as he agonized on coming up with a more bombastic verb to yoke with the lowly noun lantern.
on a day, in the early part of twentieth century, in rutherford, new jersey, in the life of a certain poet-doctor williams, much depended on a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rain beside the white chickens.