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Content Categorized ‘Poetry’

Fireball

At eight years old, I dodged the sisters’ eyes: I ate my lunch, then donned a saintly face, walked out the gate, past church and up the rise toward Horn’s Variety, that mythic place. The path was new to me. I walked alone

Washing Your Feet

Reader, they are dirty. You’ve come so far so harshly: bloody miles through silt and brambles, noxious bogs and mud-fields, dunes of char beneath the sun-spill—all of it in sandals. Take my chair; this dry, blond Scotch on ice

Forces of Nature

This autumn morning, after the freeze, They held a summit of the trees. Motions were made and seconded, And all the ochre, brown, and red Snowed down. Each ruined crown agrees

Romanze

Blissed with the notion of forbidden lust, lothario of forever-mantled satisfaction, prolong this unreal engagement—senses multiplied and shunted in constant theme and variation—prolapse, my wandering