It’s very cold in the poem. All I have is the rhythm of my legs—spondaic—with an italic of gimp. And some mud. God might
Inside the walls of the house, under eaves & floorboards, I hear the worms tumble. Loose nails jut out like pins on a
The two-trunked tree does nothing in winter but hold its visual ground: a patch of yard pressed between the muted street and roofs covered
1. Do you remember the morning she died? I do, it was evening, the sun setting down. Not dawn? The sun shone. It was