When I asked Robert Wynne to join me as co-editor of a new poetry anthology, his immediate response was When do we start? Only
Now that the planes are gone the air weighs almost nothing left out to die and rivers still trying to dodge, stalked there and
In quietest country, there’s a sound, that of yourself. The self abhors a vacuum of sound and eases forward, looking around. Between the monkey-voiced
The town we visited, Al says, remember the town—we caught a bus there. Eurithe can’t remember the name of the place, either, but she