Steve Healey

Each container is an emblem Of rubbery perfection, sealing Leftovers from the ravenous elements, Preserving them for tomorrow or the next day, Depending on a body’s mood. Say the mood is transferred, Inside equals outside, the when overlaps The where. Say the sun slips Softly ...

I’m living in Athens, Georgia, thinking about ghosts and the continuity of time. It’s hard to be in this town without feeling a kind of historical gravity pulling at your shoes. Around every corner, vestiges of the past are waiting: a civil war that erupted more than a ...

It’s the end of summer and the air is getting slightly sharper, slightly more articulate. The annual Minnesota State Fair just rolled into town—a colossal affair of farm animals, live music, fireworks, exhibits, fried cheese curds, corndogs, carnival rides and games, etc. ...

It was good while it lasted. As if all color had drained out of things. As if music were the bridge to take you elsewhere, and elsewhere turned out to be right where you were, where there was no such thing as music. He was alone in the kitchen, listening to the hum of the ...

Identity is part of the problem, although we have ways of verifying certain persons, putting our finger on them. About this time a year ago there was a war going on halfway around the world, and here in town there was a young man—the step-son of a famous newspaper ...

    From the soft ridge looking down, the four-bedroom colonials are straighter           than ever. They finally locked up Leo Simonetti,           for indecent exposure last week, pressed slacks gathered at his ankles, clutching his hard-on in Miss ...