A piece dedicated to my on-going hand therapy.
an ancient comb in the Met.
animals parade across an ivory page Continue reading
Down in the channel the tide inhales and
seaflowers fixed in the surge and swirling
rush wave frantic at tenant fish tripping. Continue reading
Like all writers, I like words. I keep a list of admirable words on hand and every so often I’ll pick one and say aloud, ‘Yes, quiddity.’ Continue reading
My language trembles with desire.
It is as if I had words instead of fingers
(or fingers at the tips of my words). Continue reading
o my divided soul
astride the tides of time