Poetry
Spring 1996
Autumn Nightfall
In the vacant lot, amid jewelweed, my sick dog sniffs out her pleasure and relief while I wait and strangely think of lust. Everywhere hidden in the yellowed leaves, […]
Poetry
Spring 1996
The White Orchids
They do not use the air as swans do, though furiously winged. This is how we'd like souls to rise: a weathered clay bowl knotted with moss, the end table […]