The History of Poetry
Not the astronomer but the accountant slicing olives for his egg salad sandwich before resuming his ledger. The first writing […]
Not the astronomer but the accountant slicing olives for his egg salad sandwich before resuming his ledger. The first writing […]
I stop by our old house on Fairview Street. It’s a warm and sunny Valentine’s Day, the good weather not
Father, you must admit your parents were fabulous tennis players— especially your mother with that flaming backhand slash! But, sadly,
John 3:16 is gaining on me, book, chapter & verse welded to the bumper of the Peterbilt burning diesel like
I’ve seen them sitting in corridors on locked units of psych hospitals where it takes a nurse and two buzzers
Once only a gray-green mat, like the weeds That have survived winter in the bare ground Around the roses. Now