Poetry

These umber bar chairs sit in a sequence before the bar with cracked leather and bare curved slats for support. When I was moving out I put my small only chair in the

Which you won’t/ can’t/never will with your crow- calling, bloom-cracking, soul-tapping, house-toppling, forty-nine years enter too young, too gone The ivy is climbing away from today but your words cling

Perhaps the river, if it wanted to speak would be deep-voiced, gravel drawled.  Perhaps it would be forgiving as the low fog that scarves the valley redwoods.  Our discretions mutter – light rain whispering

Oh virgula my mark ; that offered a leash out of the party ; that offered its own clearance out of misdiagnosis it is like ; give me permission Your mother crouched on the patio chair

Afterward, your hands looked criminal. But righteous machines, the merciless clicking of clocks and cars whirred on, faithful to their warranties… Blood mottled your mother’s moth-gouged sheets. I had never wanted a