Poetry
An Air in a Minor Key
We reach for what lies always out of reach,
and so we touch each other along the way.
The opacity of you that cannot be gotten through
returns me to the senses of
Being Open to Surprise: Q&A with Jolene Nolte
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An Afternoon
His death is hanging
on me like a scratchy
wool noose while I’m
standing on gravel
in the shade of a tree
covered by parasites
thriving, full flesh
green to the highest
And All Shall Be Well
This is the poem that doesn’t begin,
that knows no ending, just keeps rounding the bend
of middle, the bending and the rounding continuing ad infinitum,
as four-part harmony, long-winded, front-pew Baptist