Poetry

In green spaces, the young run drills--call their Cruyff turns Swange; say the footballs they orbit are honeycomb worlds.

If it is possible, let this cup pass from me. Not the cup that runneth over ...

The sun feels warm upon my face -- I mean, upon my eyelds, from behind which I am looking thrpugh a wintry cloudless sky ...

I am remembering the day my older brother became a force to reckon with ...

The breath of God sighs over the wild wastes; The wind of God blows over the dark deeep ...

Often we need what we have sent away– dismissedas blasphemous on some happier day ...

An open hand and wit enough to grasp the punctured palm and hold on tight, like seas that cannot leave the shore . . .

You tell everyone the dream about the sick horse surrounded by angels who fan its matted mane ...