Poet Laundry

  The whip snake came looking for black-throated sparrows in the cholla, twisting her braided scales around the palo verdes and ...

  The Poet’s Garden is lit with black fire, melancholy, and a brushstroke break turning lover’s faces to ash.   Just ask le fou ...

  It fell so early.   Or late, depending on how you look at it.   We’d not lived in the house for a full year, but storms don’t wait until...