Native Every tree and flower I see, I ask if it is native. Was it here before time? No, the answer comes always the same. India, New Caledonia, Africa are their ancient homes. What, then, was here? The mountain, of... Continue Reading →
In the grease room’s dark (somewhere above the stacks of retreads and rings of stockpiled air filters and rough pine planks that sag under cans of every kind of paint failing to approximate a rainbow, where the top shelf’s a... Continue Reading →
Summer I climb the wide west hill and the city reeks of stagnant late summer: first urine pooled under the bridge, then the dumpster behind the Indian buffet on 21st Avenue. Higher up on the hill, exhaust and roses mix... Continue Reading →
For Shura Sylvia – +++++++ The oven, frosted over with burns, Which claimed you that quiet morning – I imagine that morning, rainy and damp, toys strewn about: trucks and cars never to return. And a doll who had experienced... Continue Reading →
Rescuer My husband tells me there’s a baby loon caught in the weeds. Wondering what creature he could be taking for a loon chick, in August, I slip down to the docks. A kingfisher thrashes in the shallows, and I... Continue Reading →
Waning The moon in phases grows and shrinks before our eyes, thus we remark in public forum: crops and tides and raging men in flannel robes will all be pulled toward the sky one day in twenty-nine. Likewise, the hearts... Continue Reading →
Poetry Breakfast 