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donora hillard: from loon
Your father was what he was. That last night and me on the floor, last night and the blood (obligatory). Anyway. Who cares whose fist it is as long as it is beautiful. Daughter, I learned tenderness. I learned how to say, “Why are we whispering? Because there are chandeliers.”
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i guess i'm just really feeling Hobart tonight/today. here are four poems about Jeff Bridges by Donora Hillard (sampling the second of four):
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"You talk to Jeff Bridges about the blood behind your eyes. He tells you that this is how things got done in the 1990s."
