Sometimes I find myself thinking so much about what poetry is or what it can do that I forget to think about how it can make me feel. Perhaps that is the sign of a lesser poetry, a poetry with holes in it: one that goes through the motions, the mechanics, of...
STORM DIALOGUE Storms turn on their stomachs and gain on us. Cloud decks smoke the windows. Beating cold. Rain comes in shifts and pisses. Moving west is the gesture; the skies shave the city gray. The eastern sky is filled hammocks, storms twin up like...