Poetry

You say I should revere the father who made my squint-eyed sister my enemy ...

She stands on her hill's height sure to cause sensation ...

Snow sieves over the lawn like and angel's torn eiderdown minus the comfort ...

This mountain home weathers backwards ...

There were no ropes just a net of hands to catch me ...

So many of those I've loved have paid their last debt to nature ...

At first, a block away, there were cornfields, the fields of Rengel's Farm ...

And Adam knew his wife, who through the knowing bore Cain. You are handsy in the Uber ...

From my mother blue eyes watching from the fringes like a rabbit in long grass ...