sunny morningthe window half filledwith sea across the broken clouds, what a jet left behind– old snakeskin on cobble purple sea cloud— wolf muzzlespitting out the scorpion’s tail Originally published: Poetry Super Highway | January,...

Never changes: cached in the wallets of conventioneers or soaked in the red bubbles of a soldier’s pocket, he poses in heaven as he poses out back by the engine parts and halfway up the washroom mirror of a Smoky Mountain Texaco. His astonishment is shy as a dove in...

He is not among the exultanttwenty-eight pointing upand back. Nor in the two figuresstanding on air. He appearsnowhere in the hemp or amongthe sharp-edged shadowsof the phosphorescent flash; not therein the washed grays and whitesof shirts and eyes, not inthe...

After dyingI say we are givena little time, a lull of farewellthat delays our forgetting like a pool in the creek sweepplaced just sofor us who, just beginning,have come so faralready —to this stillness into which trees reflect once moreas we too reflect in our...

The things I’d never liked,like winter light in January,the long cold wasted afternoonstoo bright upon the scumbled cusp of December’s woodedgrays and greens—to slowly come to like such things,how much richer they seem for their unexpected seduction,like bitter...