selected past writing at 42opus
What do you love the most?
Say the reddish work of death
as it strolls through the fields…
As death is the wages of sin it is due to me; as death is the end of sickness it belongs to me; and though so disobedient a servant as I may be afraid to die, yet to so merciful a master as thou I cannot be afraid to come; and therefore into thy hands, O my God, I commend my spirit…
She can only imagine cars
on the highway. Thinks they must glint like boats
on a blue harbor. She can only imagine boats
on a blue harbor.
27 May 2006 | poetry
Sick maybe, and if so yes for home, but not homesick,
that place where vast pastures continue as horizons—
but scared, and hoping as in a game with friendly players
they let you take back a wrong move. That something…
2 December 2002 | poetry