What blossoms thenIn the rude oblique hollowOf the nightIf notOur clutch of desire unsulliedBy any sound whatsoever — None?
The wind came and lift the roof up like an angry drunk would hold a table, just before tossing it aside. Then came the…
The canal has frozen, and I’ve been handed a sharp pair of skates.
When everyone else had cleared out, the clown pulled a knife.
We were married on the beach in Westhampton eight years ago today
We look into a luncheonette, somewhere in a big city. The door from the street is stage left, flanked by large glass windows. An opening to…
This field has lay fallow but the crops are thriving on other parts of our land.
There is the idea of writing. There is the act of writing. Then there is everything in between.