to the mystery, to the undertow, the sonic boom, the solitude, the blindness that might or might not precede second sight, every...
A poem on a Penn Station wall inspired my own poem about what I want, need, and hope for at this difficult moment.
It's too cold for anything longer than seventeen syllables.
Imagine a web of gracious creation woven from utter destruction.
I explore all kinds of things that are weird to think about and invite you to join me.
We are fish benumbed by the commonplace of our individual bowls.
