You Are Not Grass The last wild passenger pigeon was namedButtons because the mother of the boy who shot it,stuffed the bird and sewed black buttons for eyes.People with Ekbom... Read More
From Camden come, rise from the dustfly to Zuccotti Park with your shaggy beardand your old school hat come see what’s happenedto your home and your beloved democracy.Let’s grab a... Read More
Hardwoods​On the east sideOf the clearingAt the ox-bowOn the SandyThere’s a fir treeGrowing up fromWhat remains ofAn old maple(The evergreenDeeply rootedIn the flesh ofThat toppled thing).Take this on faith,You’d bleed... Read More
Among the women in tank tops, backs arched, slow pacing,Among the young men riding small wobbling bikes against traffic,Among the rows of row homes, standing like beggars waiting for money,Waiting... Read More
I imagine you on a May morningbreezing into his study, breathlessfrom your sprint across the fields.The great man of letters—your father’s friend,your friend—neither sighs nor hesitatesas he sets his quill... Read More
Practicing the World HAPPY HOUR The more I talk to people who’ve lost loved ones, the more apparent it becomes that—despite our beliefs about the afterlife—many of us watch for... Read More
Self Portrait with Mabel, Rose, Lillianne, Fern, Mildred, Bea My mother named me little old lady. Named me: startle-easily, little-flincher, night-terrors-with-spiders. I lived in a different century. I was born... Read More
It is difficult to write about my poems because I’ve always believed that the poem should speak for itself. Then again, I’m not one to turn away from a challenge... Read More
The Whole Mess… Almost– Gregory Corso I ran up six flights of stairsto my small furnished roomopened the windowand began throwing outthose things most important in lifeFirst to go, Truth,... Read More