Henri Cole

He drew these dandelions during one of the days when the only solace was derived from the labor of getting the white stems and blurry seed heads just right. “Nobody there,” the new disease announced, with black-tie gloom, “nobody there,” after he’d succumbed. Sometimes, sleeping soundly is almost unbearable. Please take care of me, he asked, as they put his crayons with his wallet in a box by the stove. In the distance, beyond the tulips, an insect chorus droned: we beat you up; we beat you up.