PoetryIam a night-time walker, Iprefer dark, dark publicparks,the sound of the bush splittinga grin, baked earth beneath mywalker’s feet. A night-time walker, Iprefer outskirts around mywalker’s knees, the sound of the silken breeze. I, a night-time walker,am a conduit forremarks. I am...

Memoir My art is something precious; something locked behind my tongue.Barbara Hanrahan, Sea Green (Fontana Books, 1980) TWO YEARS AGO, a spiritual experience punctuated my otherwise secular existence. I was standing in a strange hallway. The walls were covered with framed...