every time i sigh i can’t help but think i’m getting a little taste of what it's like to die
A poem
Poetry
November
You are no longer a child.
First snow
turning to dust. A sheetless bed.
Dead or Alive
burying the /
man /
alive.
ELEGY FOR THE HOME I LEFT
Along the Mississippi we listened to jazz,
more follies and feathers
the tinkling of the ice dam is now cacophony
Waiting to Melt
After Dustin Pickering