Exiting the Belt Parkway at Fourth Avenue & 92nd Street, my friend, Sheila, and I were en route to pay last our respects to Mrs. May...

Art Review by Robin Tovey The painting Black Virgin by Thelma Johnson Streat is on display at the Portland Art Museum as part of the...

emptiness passes between us— myself & deep forest; myself & vast sky; myself & babbling creeks. emptiness passes between us like a silk...

Summer’s end Your eyes are like honey. Your brows are like smooth thick fluffy caterpillars. Charlie snorted. Out her window, blue peeped...

It’s time to quit writing poems, I decide in Silver Lake, drinking Georgian wine with Austin knowing the sun has already left Echo Park...

It is the coldest day Of the hottest year. I should feel relief, reprieve, A breath of fresh air. But instead I shiver and my breathing...

the money buried in the yard was like the poetry buried in your chest not all of it would be recovered, some of it lost forever a dog is...

you were perfect there on the coast you let me come and lose my mind there after my work was done you were perfect there by yourself you...

If you close your eyes on the ward the machines no longer sound like machines, but like birds in a wood. Wood pigeons, say, insistent –...