There are some things too close to the sky to be read, composed in the cadence of a sigh

“I know who you are and you — you, young man are Murder”

Perhaps a carpet or two may serve a tourist well...

I will not be fooled by green shoots in November...

The broken bowl of an oxhead meerschaum and the iron mouth...

How many nights, in the hard sweats of a name have I stood over you...

What is ritually done — prayer say or stacking coffee cups...

somewhere in the hard truth of the plains...

I often search for that patch of grass in that abandoned park...