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
Over a plate of spaghetti an elderly man marvels at the many paths his pasta takes until those paths converge into a knot in
When I shaved my beard The hair fell clumped Into the bathtub. She asked me not to clean it. She swept it into her
S is the shape that never dissolves, a rubber trumpet, a plastic octopus. Did you learn these moves watching acrobats? Such bones are more