Waves push pull; the media bobs at the shifting surface. Waves push pull; we swallow brine like sunshine rays. … More
Tag: Writing
Progress
Never mind that nothing else has gotten done the past four months. One hundred thirty-seven, now thirty-eight, pages of poetry … More
Early Train
South east of my bedroom, four of five miles off, trains from the yard begin their journey. Where to, I … More
Mouth Thorn 