No, there are no villains in Crockford's poetry. Just American consumers, perpetually on the verge of great leaps into radical conclusions or of the dark realization that there is no peace, only war. For now.
Walter had been keeping his face down and lifted it then. He’d endured, while in jail, a compulsory haircut and the acne remnants, fully visible, were accompanied by newly inflicted bruises — obviously something else had happened in jail as well.
I’ve always been afraid of Shakespeare, by reputation beforehand (he’s hard); (he’s too hard for you, for us), and then doing Henry V in 2nd year. I was thirteen.
When Michaela's death was fresh, I told the parents around me that it's a privilege to fear for your children. Beats the alternative, you know? And I am afraid, for my surviving children, all the time.
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