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
First Vision Believe that granite is soluble, that prickly pear yearns for skin and teeth. Believe chaparral blooms in the brain when rain wears
I can still hear the loud moan in my grandfather’s kitchen, where the woodstove was open for the failing fire’s warmth, and on the
I preach to myself on Red Hill Road that I’ve had it all, all I could hope for: the older and the younger Cambridge;