Sunday, December 16, 2007





EMPTY PALM

Toss your arms toward winter, when summer
is the barren ground. Your loved ones become icons; senseless saints and vibrant clowns.
The hand that reaches is the hand that creates, is the one that refuses, turning all beauty to waste.
My prayer is the slim leaf that falls openwhen no one else is around.
-

Monsters

  • (no title)
    Tattle-Tale Nation
  • (no title)
    BREAKING SHORES If the rain were a telegram then I’d be talking to everyone at once, all of us under a singular, spreading touch, as ti...
  • (no title)
    GRAVE MELODY I have found Sabina Melody among the graves, beloved of Matthew, resting in this earth since 1891, awaiting the Day of R...