Son of a Farmer The farm is not completely gone, even if the bricks deny it, and the sidewalks pave…
How We Say Goodbye --for Susan Whearat Your voice on the phone is quick with love and reckoning. I close…
Gone for Good My sister has gone crazy again. It is a place she goes alone. When she is out…
Corvid Crows, they say, know more than we do about what we’re like when we think no one is watching.…
A Memory of Dublin Upon Hearing of the Death of Seamus Heaney Heaney is dead and the Irish will write…
Luckiamute August You are a mirror Marbled refractions waver the underside Trees are flashed with green…
After the Memorial From files of past lives, the smell of mouse-urined letters, I hear again the lassos of ornery…
For the Pulp Fiction Writer of the Forties Who Published under Pseudonyms --in memory of Don James The stars could…
Go Gentle Dylan, you were young. Who dares refute the sacred words of poets who die young? Your passion flaming…