By William Connolly

William Connolly eats, sleeps, writes and studies (art, religion, other people) in Boston, Massachusetts. He lives in a swamp, wet boots, pretty birds, odd bugs everywhere, with mold like you wouldn't believe.


all the walls are shaking softly & the sharp shining cuts the roof’s relief across cracked brickwork to show what went unseen before the light of evening pulls her black shawl over the city night as streetlights flicker & buzz to life, falling west across the breadth of habitation, right to left. the sunlight shakes the seasons & from fall winter springs So summer might shed raw, bright, Light on the heart of truth its Whole & its seed & its root & its leaves. The trouble is, truth neither sees nor believes, So how does it get off Being?