Poetry

He is putting his whole hood/ over the hyssop, lowering his bone nose/ for the scent.

He lives in infinity, and his voice is/ an octave higher than silence.

 “I really feel I can touch you even in this darkness when I pray.”     —War correspondent James Foley (1973—2014)            from his last message to his family “Man Jack the man is, just” Gerard Manley Hopkins Recovered now enough to scrub the deck, which turned dun brown with insidious dirt and […]

In the beginning my beginning hummed with the sound of a thousand other beginnings. Now, when I say light, I stare away from sun & into your body. If I am to be in possession of anything, I want it to be my state of witness. How difficult to see the consanguinity of rivers, one […]

Jacobnever climbed the ladderburning in his dream. Sleeppressed him like a stonein the dust,and whenhe should have risenlike a flame to jointhat choir, he was sickof traveling,and closedhis eyes to the Seraphimascending, unconsciousof the impossible distancesbetween their steps,missedthem mount the