Poetry

There is nothing you can do about that, partly because you are a flea, but mostly because you are just one flea—waiting to be squashed.

After seventeen summers of bonfires and flashlights, I hold our picture in my hands and stare into cross eyed admiration: a rosy burst against the grey cottage...

Who I have become is someone I do not recognize And although my reflection is faithless and uncompromising I wish for nothing more...

In the breakable blue sky, naked as the worms in the dark, crumbling earth below; They are holding the sky up, or else trying to tear it down and I’m afraid...

With fight ebbing from my body, final silver bubbles slipping through my lips like a whisper, my heart beats a final call to arms.

Gray clouds became shadows of a game we knew well And the world turned over, and gave itself to shadow puppets and rain...