for many people the word “gun” is a gruesome noun to speak the touch of a bullet foreign the weapon’s weight astonishing and they are...

a part of April found a January day the bluebird’s white breath

we like to comb the obituaries like shells on the beach it’s where the dead wash up each carrying the script of a life in their cracks...

the well-crafted phrasing which waters the eyes of poets and others of the creative art doesn’t faze the red ones of this rowdy group he...

thirty years together and it’s piles of joint laundry and a laundry list of grocery runs dinner prep medical appointments house repairs...

after the hawk’s kill a pile of blowing feathers still looking for home

when it’s this quiet I almost hear the sun rise not quite, but almost

if plants have feelings wouldn’t vegetarians eat mouthfuls of guilt? if they have a soul wouldn’t that be murder? they better hope...

there on the sidewalk it’s just ants descending on a dying beetle though it could be people at a Best Buy sale something about going in...

first words feel lonely on a page all by themselves if a poet is seriously sympathetic he’ll send out invitations to every expression he...