It's the fern beyond the wind, the classic Eruptions. Night is a funnel that is overcome. Violence of signs beyond the pale. Stasis Has its own way, the hard work, the violence. Convalesce, convalesce in the green green World, in which you could hardly walk, But that was before, before life set its rhythms In
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poems
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2012
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2006
I sit by the window and watch a great mythological bird go down in flames. In fact, it’s a kite the neighborhood troublemaker has set on fire. Twenty-one and still living at home, deciding when to cut through a screen and chop us into little pieces. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” his mother would say, as they packed our
