Poetry

makes perfect, they say. Habitual as in tradition or in the practice of a tradition, anyway, which is a handing down. Say from the Greek word for practice, praxis, or from Medieval Latin,

In school today I taught my students why leaves change in the fall. The book I read to them says the green drains out, revealing the other colors; the reds, yellows, and oranges

Split in one, two, three… Breathe. I can’t hurt you now. I am yellow. But I am hers. Iron, floods, and screams, Like me, she is desperate To remain un-maimed, Holy like

The old captain, lost at sea, in his last, long sun-bleached days, started dropping books gently overboard, one by one, and the star-charts, too, the maps, the bodies of his former crew; he

It can be warm and cold here at once Like day-old chili con carne (that’s a Texas joke, I’m told) But what I mean is you may at some point feel