The Pitch
– For Len Gasparini I could have mumbled a poem at you Easily yet the mornings bring a…
Poetry
The House
I’ve never visited Grace Street, but draft an image from my mother’s stories. The…
To Marshall McLuhan
You were right, dear professor, the great vortex came in time whirling us into the pond…
weak cloth
we are made of weak cloth and barely woven fabric sewed, having chosen a design because…
Unfoundland
When they were old men they couldn’t recall if they had strode that mystery, or…
Feux Rouges
At the carrefours, signs and avenues Usher us to divergent destinations. We trace…
The Door
“Go shut the door,” he told me, and I stopped a second, wondering exactly what he…
Language
when my mother died so did our language the one we spoke each day at the kitchen table…
Wasted Talent
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a…
On the Trace of a Desire
You were blowing like a light breeze I felt you on my skin like a whirlwind. I brought my…