Poetry

Sitting in his throne of stone, cut from crags atop the world’s tallest mountain, overseeing all, the king-god breathed deeply in his lungs before exhaling forth a rushing word, what appeared to mortal senses like raging winds that carried thundercracks across the waves ...

The Holy Spirit comes in while you are quiet. There is nothing voice yet many questions while our tongues are still.

When I left the southern coast, I bid farewell to hummingbird, never thought I'd see a calliope, rufous, or ruby-throated again ...

On Sundays when football isn't on our family naps through high noon westerns after church.

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, and the hum and the buzz and the blue flicker of the fluorescent tubes that twitch and wink for decades like highway stripes ...

O Oriens: Light that breaks, that cracks the void; match for God to phosphoresce with gust of words.

The shoot will come up from the dry ground ...

She buys me for my birth canal but beats me for the birth.

Green bills shimmy onto the stage floor from hands who gave them up to a box named "charity"