for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

“we do not bleed like nightingales when felled singing”

(four of thirty-one one-line poems in my recently published book, “we do not bleed like nightingales when felled singing”  at books)

a drizzle tinkling in parched pools

the wind-shaken birch piping old pains too late to replace

a cypress hedge nursing hoarseness since long ago

when the waning moon a pregnant sea receding in the swell


May 4, 2020 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment