Another winter Of caps and jackets and gloves Reminds me what hands can do A winter of snow fog clearing To reveal what I
Late yesterday afternoon, three vultures escorted The night into the shimmering cottonwoods While they waited for the next morning’s light To feed on a road-killed
He describes For he doubts all logic And only his senses remain true He wants to talk of these things How the sun
I could be a tree And you can find shade beneath my limbs I could be a tree And you can climb over me Just
By my bed, there is a figurine of a young girl with her arms outstretched and birds have landed on her. Though she doesn’t stand
The car ride was silent. Once we pulled into the driveway, my little sister ran inside. I watched her, as my mother once watched me.
Fleshed only to fall towards their own bad making, the apples drop cold to an early bed. Marred before any real beginning it seemed a
Somewhere along this coast your body moves as it once did, beside mine, in sleep. Your shores are doubly as frigid and thrash toward jagged
The canal began unwinding in 1905, wood flume twelve feet wide. I’d like to rename you, a more rarefied name worthy of your rills
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a body jerked up in the air by three black vultures, it landed in spasmodic