Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.

Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.

A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.

POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.

There are men and women so lonely they believe God, too, is lonely.