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
Cloistered by power lines & steel frames driving I-15 south toward my Mar Vista loft. The scent of burnt weeds, scorched joshua trees seep
In the recycled paper bag in my hand I carry a flag of many stripes in a variety of colors with a few, small,
for Li Po His bones were dust before the first millennium. A thousand years after that, I open a book. What happened is unclear.