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…
Fantasies of Shepherd Life I dream of sheep and the Outer Hebrides, fields furrowed with linen lines and feral life:…