selected past writing at 42opus
I set out to make a list of five, but found choosing among the nineteen stories more difficult than I had anticipated. I whittled the list to seven, then, to justify my failure to choose, slipped a cheap play off the year into the title.
I hear her grape-sized heart
& she, tiny love, knows not
milliliters of blood
the unfocused, gray cloud
in the left sliver of her right
iris, a mumbling
20 July 2009 | poetry
And then, after six years, she saw him again.
Last day of winter won't disappoint. Rain one degree from the gentleness of snow rides the added chill of March wind bruising skin blue, or red, dreary, dismal. Olson called it dour.