A downed oak, toppled by time, pithless logleveled, imploding, rotting edificeunder blown snow; above, warped-and-wovenscene of leafless torsos, sky’s grays threadedthrough like tattered banners attesting

In dreams an island looms in silhouetteand speaks through the outline of a mouthand murmurs it’s an idea not an island,not an island. An idea

That moment when, in the midst of wreckageand tears, you see a scarlet cardinalacross the way, and last evening,he and his mate, more russet than

The Holy Spirit comes in while you are quiet. There is nothingvoiced yet many questions while our tongues are still. In the yearsahead of us,

On Sundays when football isn’t onour family naps through high noon westernsafter church. In my dreams, gun fights echo the sermon. This morning my daughter’s

Texas Dept of Criminal Justice ID: 02290142Crime: Aggravated Assault of a Child.Sentence: 7000 years. Age 41 When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy

To lie in the dark and ask for day. To name the unborndaughter Dawn, the shortest street Aurora. O Oriens:Light that breaks, that cracks the

Then I made love to the prophetess, and she conceived and gave birth to a son. — Isaiah 8:3 His warm, coal-scarred lips grazemy breasts

Look to him and be radiant. —Psalm 34:5a Be red desert blush. Be peacock plume glanced by high-noon sun. Be moon-ring chalking winter night. Be