Poetry

I’m a pile of bones, clattering, too loud for a jaunt through the desert. Fold me up, a wooden marionette, put me in the chest with the other old toys and scrapbooks.

Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb, Now leaves His well-belov’d imprisonment, There He hath made Himself to His intent Weak enough, now into the world to come; But O, for thee, for

The current is an idea more than a force, a shared wishing that can pull the waves this way & that, the shells below vibrating in their indecision. You surfed the Panama Canal

The summer before my senior year of college, a friend from my hometown threw a massive party, the only purpose of which was to gather as many of our classmates as possible from

Loving God, at such a troubled time we turn to you. We lament the senseless deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice and so many others and the pain that their parents,