The cobweb on the lawn is white with dew at dawn, a handkerchief dropped there in some forgotten game,
In the writer’s art, words are our paint, our clay, our chords. But when we are not practicing the art of writing, we are still using words — to scream at each other, to promise, lie, compliment; word come at us from the TV, from menus, billboards, tax returns; they are present in the…
Out on the overlapping layers of new-fallen autumn in West Virginia, I’m pursuing him I was taught to see as the ambassador of evil.
How much of us could have been wings? the visiting poet asked, admiring the vultures kettling above Buzzards Roost
When steel-wool clouds tumble out of the west, and the air hovers between thirty-five and twenty-five Fahrenheit, winds varying north to southwest, it will snow.
So many nights we sat up listening to basketball games, talking about cars and the cities he had drive through in big truck, all the dangerous cargo he had carried.
We waited for the war. I watched his shadow tick across the floor whenever he shifted his weight, light contracting through the hallways of the house: