Small, seven-years-old, chewed fingernails dug in, baby fat of thighs pressed into thick raised bark, I scrambled up to a crux. There in the
You might think this is too much sharing, and my wife, who for this poem I’ll call Irene (which, coincidentally, is her real name),
Scour and find a scroungy dump mutt; take a glass jar with a screw top and scratch the dog all over with the open-mouth
Sometimes when I feel sick the thunder comes from across the valley to comfort me. Did you know lightning is married to thunder? She