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
Is it sex, or war when cats convene under the house, keening moans & wails, almost words in the guttural mumbles. Who knows those
Phycodurus Eques Hard to imagine their awkward dazzle evolving, ganglia branching from nubs of protosentient matter, into these brittle-seeming denizens. Easier to think a
Even twigs Compare themselves to branches. Branches compare their leaves To wings of the uninitiated. Leaves fly away and copulate Before they fall Their