Poet Laundry

Maybe life, in all its mysteries, is much like reading a Mary Oliver poem. It’s not about counting syllables or forcing rhyme; it...

She’d had too much winter and spring came with summer on its heels like two pigtailed girls twirling in the sweet, tall grass, ...

You asked me how I felt, after the year gone shipwreck in the land of the malignant albatross, and I could never answer you compl...

That flicker in the spaces between quivered breaths calls to me on quilted nights. Like stars collected in a jar of lidless h...