Poetry

Some people love the smell of gasoline. His anger made him utter endless obsenities.

The fog again - it hangs late this year, whitening the air the way snow whitens the ground.

The first flurries are falling, falling slowly. In the dark of morning, I reached into my shadow closet ...

Sitting at the end of a lakeside dock, with solid cedar boards below my chair but ever-flowing water underneath ...

Sometimes I make the mistake of being too corporeal-minded forgetting we are predominately made of light ...

You were clumsy, they say. For a monk seems an unlikely way to be.

I don't believe this for a second. Neither do you. It's the dying, not the coming back, we doubt.

Too lots these lights. Bats can't do their gnat trick bit ...

That time keeps on slipping slipping slipping into the future isn't true strictly speaking.