Dirt Garden (poetry)
My garden of foxtails and milk-thistle, Alive and wild, more so than tended rows In growth, has died. I killed them a little, The crab-grass clumps, Datura and nettle. "Time and time, I commit these small murders, To whose benefit?" I ask why and...
Untitled Poem
My flame low, frail as foam, We made a change of hateful acreage, Bitter course which I was bound To: trim the wick or quench the embers, Quick to cut the candle down And I would be your psychopomp And you would be my ward And I...