Poetry

Every story has already been told and originality is dead, a student from long ago email me, one line, no greeting or signature ...

I don't know, Lord, but sometimes I feel like all my accomplishments could fit inside a Pez dispenser, with room left over for candy ...

In the beginning was the dark like the dark on the road to Cochrane ...

I saw the snow high & lifting each flake on six wings ...

Overnight, new toadstools shoulder through sodden grass the way sorrows emerge ...

How headlong, the robin's exuberant joy—versus the shining illussion of space ...

Our Desert Fathers & Mothers deserted Rome to pray and work in the wild ...

How the body betrays its mortality. The monthly ebb and flow of sex hormones; the cyclic keeping of charts, temperatures, hope ...

I understood the word to mean a deep and deperate want—to be waifish and lacking ...