It Is June. I Am

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.

We Talked Death With Burned-up Intensity, Both Of Us Drawn To It Like Moths To An Electric Light Bulb. Sucking On It!

I Put The Gold Star Up In The Front Window Beside The Flag. Alterations Is What I Know And What I Did: Hems, Gussets And Seams.

The Day Of Fire Is Coming, The Thrush Will Fly Ablaze Like A Little Sky Rocket.

Blind With Love, My Daughter Has Cried Nightly For Horses, Those Long-necked Marchers And Churners That She Has Mastered, Any And All, Reigning Them In Like A Circus Hand.