The sun has yet to rise, but the silver sky has extinguished the stars. Haleakalâ is black against the rising light. Maybe someone should say the mountain before dawn is darker than the mountain at midnight under starlight. It is. Last night, stars hovered at my fingertips. If there is fire, it is beyond me. … Continue reading
Tag Archives: Eric Paul Shaffer
Cotton: A Sort of Sestina — Eric Paul Shaffer
Cotton is my life, and T-shirts are the clothes the moment wears, soft stuff of familiar fabric worn into shape as we make lives from the material. A favorite may last years, but washing reveals what becomes of cloth. As the color fades, the fit fits better. Stitches loosen and seams relax, and the shape … Continue reading
Without Turning On the Lights — Eric Paul Shaffer
For years, I’ve arrived late at my own door, and entered without turning on lights. It’s not I’m at ease with a house of shadows. I’m as frightened as anyone by the horrors night can conceal. Yet when I was a boy, my sight was so poor I learned the arrangement of rooms, the angles … Continue reading
Paul and Victoria — Eric Paul Shaffer
Paul and Victoria are the people people who think they know us think we are. To me, they say, “Paul, why don’t you and Victoria join us?” For drinks. For dinner. For long enough for a crowd to gather and you to fade from mind and memory as your names do when we frown to … Continue reading