Content Categorized ‘Poetry’

The orange-and-brown-on-light-olive ottoman beside the truck on the side of the road next to the gas station out on the mesa is apparently for sale. Pathetic, no, but funny, and funnier still when we stop to buy it for five dollars, 

When you walk over the earth, it asserts itself: “Here. Here.

When I am in a strange place, the pain of our separation is conceptual. I sit and play at guessing how far away the thunderhead,

When the last rifle-shots of the season ring out across the river—swollen thick with rain and mud, moving forward as everything must—