It was such a night, so black that the stars took over and used the whole sky to play in, when they appeared. Dogs going crazy, seven shadowy threats in a tight pack, looming in the dark, staring as I peeked around the shade on my glass front door. You must have the wrong home, I say. No, we came for the poet. I turn on the light and open the door. Two adults hover in the back with four kids in the foreground. The third adult, the mother I assume, tells them to step forwar

if you find a hand to place your biggest fears to your grandest dreams which closes its fingers around those naked feelings as gently as your own that’s like having another arm to lift off the world’s weight and pull you out from under it romantic love might be the biggest heart squeezer, that which drives you insane with happiness but if it can’t perform the above, then what will help you when you’re crying for help? a good friend hardens your joy and at the other

quitting pickleball last year, I knew I needed exercise and took up walking and realized I needed to push with purpose, as if a nipping dog was on my heals it’s now become just my head floating above the churn of legs and the pendulums of arms an odd disconnect of will and want, freeing me for discussions with myself, mumbling about things I see - ravens curiously circling above a rabbit fleeing across the path other walkers passing, paired and in groups of deep discu