Since April
Since April Your mother has died, You are motherless. These are two distinct pains. One follows you, room to room, a…
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At the Hands of a Poet
At the Hands of a Poet Neruda heats me up with “I want to do with you what spring does with the…
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The Sound of a Marching Band Always Did Make Me Cry A Little
The Sound of a Marching Band Always Did Make Me Cry a Little The click and throb of a drum corps slays…
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The Ocean of You Never Changes
The Ocean of You Never Changes Look inside. You will see it’s true. Even when you were very small, birds held the…
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