“The eagle is flying,” Darren declares. He’s looking out the window.
Barefoot in the shadow of giants: ashes, and liquid amber,I extend hands still rippled in baby fat to receive this many-lipped gift.
A breezy warm midnight in the blue-stoned back-alley behind my house. Amber light pools beneath shed doors — the dull gold trail waterfalls…
A Poem
Sitting in the corner of my bedroomSilent tears stream down my face