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...

Am I a renouncement or a cage...

If falling down stairs in a terry robe were not enough...

Turkey prints in mud, prongs...