Machinist of Love
The sign said, Machinist Of Love. And he took my battered pump. With spanner, riffler, callipers, lathe, he worked all the bent and bloody years into an ordered...
Category: Poetics
The Editor
Above the spruce, pitched wings work the air like the agitator of a washing machine. Raven lands heavy and the falling branch of an old poplar clatters down lik...
Ordinary man
I am an ordinary man. I had dreams of being more than ordinary, have, in my low times, pretended to be more, but I am ordinary to the root. When I was younger, ...
Sound of thirst
At dusk I hear the coyotes, Calling wind from their treasuries, Vapours from the east and west. Bark, howl, what else is there In a coyote’s chords, In th...