A Sunday like this || all ordinary •
the age of revolution || upon us Continue reading →
Words strung one to one like cars commuting, •
sidling up and past and rearranging, Continue reading →
Others, smelling the warm, moist nights recall •
when love first broke the winter’s long silence Continue reading →
River, ramble as you will. This road’s a cruel, hard master •
And I can’t slow the water’s flow, or travel any faster. Continue reading →
but then if you can’t recall if that is •
a red-winged blackbird or eastern towhee Continue reading →
Art is a real thing. Art is the soul of the whisper of the cloud on the horizon.
