Poetry

In the eye of sleep, brushing against some spelunker’s rope, the mind comes undone and stitches memories to dreams. Who will imagine that within the wriggling and miraculous morning estuary …

Today I raked the last of the leaves and apples, our dog, my dog, Frank, running laps with his green ring, irritated. You crossed my mind, as you do each …

Before I read this first poem I should tell you that my paternal grandfather had a gold pocket watch with a lid over the watch’s face. In his later years …