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  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    He spent the afternoon at a tea-table, reading-- first the palm, softly uncurled in his own like timid petals revealing themselves to late August’s honeyed air (oh and how the lines fell like bark’s scars across her hand, like lightning’s strike against a burnt-indigo sky) then t...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Tuesday afternoon, I may sit with Mary Oliver at the ivy-laced table where the garden descends into wilderness. She would explain the far-slung call of geese, or faint spider-web paths through the forest or, perhaps, where in the tree she hides her pencils – by root, under limb? And o...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Where do you want to go? Cross-continental Euro-trip. Culebra, Puerto Rico. Some tropical foliage like a post card, with hidden romanticism in its wood-to-shoulder reality. What do you want to be? Water vapor. I want to let the day crystallize, feel myself unbounded; let the pieces undo t...
  • Nonfiction > Memoir
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    Mrs. Lynn was a frail, translucent lady. When she played piano, the bones of her hands would play across her papery skin. Her hair was a myth, and it moved of its own accord. “I think it's a wig,” my sister confided in me one day. I laughed at the word. Later, I realized I didn't know ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    The girl is at the dock. You see her like a photograph, following all this rule-of-thirds nonsense; she at the dock, which is dark and decaying and natural against the sandpapered ocean, and maybe a sea gull, blurred, cast upon a wooden seat. She has brown hair, graced past her shoulders, sc...

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