She is leaning against the wall, sagging from no water.
No one notices as her flower fades and the petals fall again.
Hope springs eternally and naively as she shyly looks at the
boys who pass her by.
Invisible in spite of her bright colors.
At the hour of one she gath...
On the slow train from Cambridge
To Ely, I am sitting behind two Russians.
A couple, they are locked in conversation,
Oblivious to the fenland steppe outside,
The rain-steeped, raven-black earth,
This England in its midwinter rain.
My mother and father made smoke in the kitchen
over hot pots and pans, over hot water and oil,
over time, over each other’s bellies. They danced
in front of the oven until fire shot from their feet;
showed us how love might look at the end of a long
$50,000 is a slice of life narrative, hovering between prose and poetry with a five-standalone-sentences per page format. Advertised as a long poem, it is a great book for poetry-lovers and haters alike as it is modest in its poetical techniqu...
I have a hard time throwing away holy socks.
Every time I put one on, I think, awe man,
… this ain’t so bad.
When I put one on this morning, my big toe
Was halfway out. A rebel sock making its own holes
a fingerless glove for your foot. Brass knuckled toes