Poetry
Spring 1989
White Skiff
I see my skiff has slipped its mooring, pulled downriver by the outgoing tide; a rope rag dangles from the buoy. Perhaps she nudges the mudbank downstream where green marshes […]
Poetry
Spring 1989
The Wake
So many people I don’t know at the party for you today. My lips hurt from smiling, stretched against my teeth. All I can do is hug the familiar: your […]