Night shadows are the feast of awakenings. The outskirts of compassion, absent of spiritual thresholds. They are the counterparts without conversation; the willing partner in

Disturbed waters are the evidence of youths seeking a smooth belonging; searching to square off the circle. They are dreamers between rocks, pushing from a

When the kitchen table becomes a confessional and the combat with demons in the heart hears conversation turn toward tired despair, How many more years,

After Camille Pissarro’s Haymaking at Éragny Pissarro clumped, sculpted, plowed his oil paints to produce this hayfield: fertile pigments mixed, molded, together like squelching mud

I’m holding a thought in my mouth I’ve got it polished and smooth, and oh it’s hard II the middle like a rock I spotted

Hosea 2:7 “What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?” – Jacque Lacan “ut operaretur eum”

Hosea 2:15 In January your keys keep the time, plink like antlers discarded in the foyer. House sealed tight as a covenant. I hold our