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
You watch the dogs out the window playing, the daughter hanging from her mother’s ruff, the bitch pinning her to the swelling ground to
She’s digging a hole in the front yard, scarf folded tight to her head, a four-year-old babushka practicing paleontology. The damage done to the
Simmering paths of my headlights steadily deadened through the fog through the dark as I come upon what seems a sudden encampment on the