Explore

Grasshoppers tumble from the reeds, snapping like electricity.

She’d seen snakes before, but she’d never really looked at one, until now.

Sixty-year-old veins look like giant roots breaking through earth’s skin.

Hear the voice of life telling you something from the inside out.

Where is the door that will take us to the world where memory lives?

A memory in the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink that won’t stop.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

The first skeleton drawn from the earth, they called beautiful.

“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”

From a pyre on the burning ghat a corpse slowly sits up in the flames.

I wanted my love to be everywhere, then love began to bite through me.

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

Men are so delicate, must be given many portals. I try to be game.

Art, like writing, is an invitation to be surprised, to be open to revelation.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

Ike’s voice left behind on the shore as Tina plunges in again.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

I am visited daily by unrelenting spirits evoking my accumulated flaws.

Again, nature has written a good script. The skunk saga will continue.

The strange man expected to be picked up by aliens during the eclipse.

No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.

Let me remember there’s a door inside each flower.

A boy in a dress vanishes beneath the sound of his own galloping.

Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.

“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.