Salvage This

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This poem needs to be saved from itself. It is way over the hill. Words on dead wood. Long ago it ceased to be profitable. You would be keeping it from being taken by its own dark and useless powers. There are words in here over a thousand years old. They have conspired with other …

At The Foot Of The Mountain

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Only there–where the water comes down against rock– knees of rock, shinbone rock, squat on heels, rock set across the creek from my tent where the water comes down against this first steep coastal rising only there– where water last speaks to rock the forest against that rock water taking every sound to its numberless …