A collection of 12 posts
We met at a summer dance, /
Then she was gone.
Green is gorgeous is too soon gone, / she thought. Rockets fell toward new year’s dawn.
In the acre’s shady corner / of unremembered names
again, i was all alone / and awake / (just lying there) / when the first wave came with a strong wind
along centre street in midtown ashland / where william’s woods’ dark seams form a forum ...
I was afraid / of the man next door ...
Sister Three was on the phone, / and she was outraged.
Seven hundred years ago, / Dante died in exile in Ravenna / and was buried there.
Months away, but the milestone looms.