It’s cold. And while I’m better at frying chicken thighs so the skin and rosemary stick, I still haven’t bought envelopes for these postage stamps, or checked the mail for that package you sent.
On the famous path by the river, I stoop and pick up a Buckeye to keep in my pocket.
Mercers Bottom, West Virginia When he sees a shadow veer in the sky, when my TV squeaks and whirs, when we can’t sleep, we blame a bird-thing, a moth-man,
All was spiny loneliness of branch and bark, then, in an instant, all was a threat of bursting liveliness, nothing but the night’s dark blur
After Tim Barnwell’s photograph, “Emma Mills on porch with chickens, 1982” I don’t much care what they’ll think, folks who’ll see this photograph hung in Tim’s shop window, what they’ll assume about my life
We are being forced to bear the burden of dirty power for Nevada. –William Anderson, chairman of the Moapa Band of Paiutes Near the generating station Coal ash they breathe, coal ash they take in, coal ash in the water, in the air, bottom ash, fly ash,
Each year, the centurial black walnut threatens to expire, yet flowers branch by branch, bud by bud, magisterial in its hour.
Wheeling, West Virginia In the hot room, while the finishing men shape glass with pucellas and shears, the snapper boy tongs the gathers—jars, jugs, flasks, and bottles— into the glory hole, that they may reheat, soften, be carried by him to the sweat-slick finishers, their necks and lips to be…
As time went by, he marked that grueling place in his heart as one he loved. A love of the word, even tipple.
how inappropriate the night with all her gowning and un-gowning when turns the day she sheds her mantle and teases sensuous light