Cry Mother, Cry
Down my bedroom window pane
poetry
Lament of a Twentieth-Century Widow
I am still like the amputee
The Three Little Cherubs' Rosey Behinds
She came out of Russia in an uncertain year
Masterindex: 9
ghost grasshoppers
Roundelay
oh the bums in the city
Dynastic Loin
I do not bruise you. I do not
The Ship
I run down an empty street
In a Broken Bone of Languor
The fish slides slow
Gull Cry
Damn them that claim the gull mews.
Poem for Sunday Riders
artichokes they grow like wild birds, batting their green feathers
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
