Category: Poetry

  The reason I blacked out on the Eiffel Tower is not vertigo. Though I have that. No, I was weighing the risks, whom they would call if I did it, what num...

Listen: someone is scissoring the clouds, snipping the weather into a dazzling squall of tiny white vowels. The hills have become an undulating clause, contoure...

              For Helen Louise Fullman So time reduces To essence.  In essence We persist, in scrap and word.  For example, A tatter of papyrus, one Word r...

  I think about things, while walking— like the number forty: Pat Tillman’s retired red jersey or winks in a power nap, the Bible’s wilderness days of temp...

  I’ve no problem with relatives, both living and departed, visiting my dreams such as last night when Uncle Fred dropped by my cell in a Mexican jail and ...

  Boom of the avalanche cannons as warm winds layer the snow with ice, loosening the pack here on the steep mountainsides where snowboarders flow over the ...

                              … yet do not grieve; she cannot fade, though thou has not thy bliss, forever wilt thou love and she be fair!           ...

 for Annette Allen I think of the mail, how eager I am to receive it, though there are mostly ads & bills & coupons for things I’ll never buy. I think o...

  The veteran sits like an ancient statue at noon +++++under the Ponderosas, white and fragmentary. His war is lifetimes past. His caretakers roll him and ...

  A bed, like a field, is open to weather: too much rain will bruise the fruit. To plant thanks, to sing to plenty, I will trickle seeds over your head. To...