Where History, Poetry and the Scribal Tradition Converge
The last moment becomes a breath of smoke.Heat sinews every single floorboards,tearing apart our…
when life hands youbitter disappointments, sometimes the only thingleft to do is smile.
There is a brothelin my mother’s garden
We break bread herespreading conceit over loaves of ryelike it is the last supper.
Woman standing tallbeneath the breaking boughand at that momentyou could hear the earthsplit in two.
i like silence more than the peopleWho leave it behind.
There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in…
I pray.
Eagle Speaks: