Rain and Toothless Angels In my city, it always rains. Water falls with an intensity that only belongs to fables or dreams. Serious, insistent, almost solid, a cloth made by hands without eyes. It rains on currency circulating in shopping... Continue Reading →
The Souvenir At Connemara Marble, on tour in Ireland you bought a rosary handmade from polished stones sea green, black veins the quarry’s stock-in-trade connected by a sturdy chain, as if for hands too stiff to finger through more closely... Continue Reading →
Shadows “Poetry is the only art people haven’t yet learned to consume like soup.” -- W. H. Auden I want to slip acceptance into a bowl of Campbell’s Alphabet Soup. Maybe she will swallow it then, give up this fixation... Continue Reading →
Choice & Meaning I walked in to a room. The door closed behind me and disappeared. There were no boundaries so I went everywhere, yet nowhere. A line appeared. I now had a visible and defined choice of where to... Continue Reading →
Filching Apples from Wallingford’s I asked, and he pulled the truck up beside the orchard, so I could wade through thigh-deep grass to choose two perfect apples. They were McCouns, clean and sound, a soft blush on their sloping shoulders,... Continue Reading →
Category 4 1. I heard the storm pass right over my house, he said, I was in the bathtub, unaware of sirens and weather reports, pronouncements of doom relayed by pretty television people. I heard someone crying, I’m sure of... Continue Reading →
Poetry Breakfast 