Coppinger Court All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware. Martin Buber It is a curious ruin we have come to see: long substantial walls all of four...

      Snow Lost in an infinity of misted mirrors among shelves of Optrex, Pepsodent and pink calamine, I dunked net petticoats into sugar solution to froth out the nylon frills of...

      The First day I Felt Good The first day I felt good my eyes walked through the rain that was beyond the window. There was a man outside. He was staring in. He was staring...

      Insect Destiny Butterflies follow their own invisible Nazca lines drawn by Insect Destiny or just the wind, searching, drinking, mating, dying. Squint and imagine the lacy...

      poem in red this is a poem in red and my hands are shaking and my bed is not a bed and I lay still and I think of dreaming and I think I’m dreaming and the yellow walls are not...

      Bound for Glory My lungs are echoed in black the way the sky is patched blue come afternoon I am hanging from the splinters of my tongue in the open-eye instant of reckoning...

      Envelope Those soiled rubber bands lay in wait around my thinning wrist. They now sag, strained by the third hour of toil. I await the ever expanding pile of envelopes like a...