Old House
There is still the great well
poetry
On Winter Mornings
He leaves nose and finger holes
The Boy Becomes a Weatherman
A backyard sputnik with bifocals and plastic hips
round fifteen
this has to be the last time
Change
Shoulders too heavy, too uncomfortable
Sheerness
Backwater. Steelblack blackwater.
Inside the Storm
It is early February. Heavy snows,
Falling Down, Getting Up Again
What good is it for me to grieve?
After Playing Shostakovich at Night a Cougar Appears Behind the House
I leave the day to itself. Coming in
There are no Dreams Now
There are no dreams now,
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
