29 Palms
The hiss of a last drag cigarette.On our backson an old black and tanNavajo saddle blanketthat
The Cormorant Mimes Letters
He kinks his neck into an S To fly. He produces no oilTo keep his feathers
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Phoenix Junkyard In August
the earth was stainedbrown and black andsmelled faintly of fire in the distance, themouth of the
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White Viola Concerto
In what feels like the twist of a single momentthe season starts the first note of
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The Snow Storm
“Snow’s been falling for hours now. We’re going to end our meeting early and those who
Choosing Motherhood
When Now Meets Forever The phone call interrupted a lazy Saturday morning. I passed our baby
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