Poet Laundry

April, I am starved for light, bring a little, please, to the window where I can see summer lolling about the hills afar of...

From the window of the Moon Tree, the marina is desolate— a glum fairy tale with a solitary gull poised to flee. A police boa...

late winter in front of the fireplace, sipping tea in my bare feet wood floor, cool the scent of a new rug, chamomile...