Cattails are not bullrushes,
Nor are nightingales
House finches,
Nor are you a hurricane,
Nor am I a coastal plain,
And yet, here we are,
Swamped in the wreckage.

He observes that she’s the delicate
bruise that bears
the thumb —

and thinking so he realizes she’s
in all things
rushed to

the surface, by that bastard thumb.

medium.com/the-howling-...

"Persimmon on the gradient, I wish it
well, to roll, to tumble, to settle somewhere
like a flat tire people pass all year
and wonder as they climb the mountain
what small disaster left it there, discarded...."
medium.com/write-under-...

"The syllable surmounts, dries, lances,
hearing teeth clacking in a darkened room.
No, I wouldn’t shock you. You should know
that this is a safe poem, it won’t hurt anyone,
though it’s in a dark room and the teeth of it
could...."
medium.com/lit-up/two-l...

No lackluster blockade of heaven
can unmarry earth from its vital root.
Millions of years buried in mineral to
produce Eden, Eden and its fruit.
medium.com/the-howling-...

medium.com/the-howling-...