The Swan Leaving Leda
My sister stopped
poetry
Archaeopteryx
In the Almuhl hills, diggers discover what they long for.
New Islands
Your rooms were all handhewn, the ample kitchen,
Face and Hands: Modigliani in the Morning
Two stories up, light springs easily
Unicorn
The unicorn in my garden is not precisely invisible.
There are Angels
There are angels with two wings,
Each Journal an I-Land
Journals are written by lonely people,
Crossing a Small Bridge in Winter
once horses commanded this bridge
Play of the Eyes - Elias Connetti
He waited in his cocon of rage.
Epilogue: Deer in the Garden
All qualities of mist are precise
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
