Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.

I always thought that writing poetry was in itself a political act.

A yak is a prehistoric cabbage; of that, we can be sure.

Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!

I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.

until only infinity remained of beauty

Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision