Poetry

Dear Heavenly Farther, catamaran My unbelief and gouge your grace. I get the Holy Gist, but this, Your son, who butlered as a man? The spotless limb and bling of blings? Suppose you

Just as music’s bird from paradise is caged in a piano’s lacquered keys, our words, memory flowing toward a form then settling in autumn ice. Here, walking among foam-thrashed leaves, the

So then. There was a he, who met a she, and they got on quite well, and the narrator of the poem was nowhere to be found, so kindly he or she had

The ghost orchid is a rare flower; it doesn’t photosynthesize, it’s almost impossible to grow in home environments, and can only be pollinated from a visit by the Giant Sphinx Moth.

So the disciples gorge themselves on honey dipped spam crowned with the many crowns of identical pineapple rings as they jostle for spots on the picnic blanket, and the children spread marshmallow fluff