More on: Poetry

I must take shoes and clothes off and leave them on the bank for nakedness is water’s first language.

What would you give / / to have heaven be the way you imagine, / made of the familiar and welcoming?

We remember how we’d drink with him, and more / than half our gang are dead as he is now.

He feels such an urge to make things mean, / including his mood. He’s had that longing, / drunk or sober, all his life.

Earth stands / on end, listening. / The acid sun turns on / limes green

As usual Tempest’s strands were many. In conversation she was like a fisherman with a number of lines which she was constantly checking, to see if some unlucky bullhead or catfish might have gone for the bait.

The words can suddenly turn to vapor or stones. They have a way of wriggling out of our grasp just when we thought to touch them. This can happen to the wise as well as to the foolish.

This evil that I feel, that I taste, that makes the roads slick, is there no end, no fruition to it? It comes from somewhere, sufficient to find out where.

The words can suddenly turn to vapor or stones. They have a way of wriggling out of our grasp just when we thought to touch them. This can happen to the wise as well as to the foolish.

And because I’m a taker by nature, / I am suspicious, exhausted, on guard / against tax refunds, friendships, erasures