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Six

Coming up from the creek / hacking at the bushes / with a homemade sword, / he will step / on the nail, in the shit, / run through poison ivy, / get tick bit, / bee stung / lost — / his bones are growing.

Somewhere A Pure Act Is Saving Us

Skin-Bearing Animal

Many days Ann took the coat out of the front closet, placed it over her arm and stroked the white fur. She imagined herself standing at the North Pole surrounded by clean white snow as far as the eye could see in all directions, snow sifting from the colorful flickering sky and falling softly around her in the antiseptic cold, falling and collecting smooth and without footprint to the horizon. In the frozen wastes of her imagination, under the aurora borealis of her wounded central nervous system, she could achieve numbness.

Generations

On My Way From Ohio To Florida To Visit My Parents I Stop At The Days Inn In Ringgold, Georgia And Write This Poem

The Choice Of Emptiness

The question becomes, how do we become aware of the limitations culture imposes on us from inside those limitations? How do we see through blind eyes? How do we begin to unclothe ourselves to return to our original nakedness, when we are taught that the clothes are us?

Teaching Children

Hypocrisy, the Golden Rule, chaos

Selected Poems

Editor’s Note

Windfall

The hurricane gathers speed as it nears the Gulf Coast, winds now being clocked in excess of one hundred miles an hour. For two days newsmen have been reporting her progress and are congregating in Corpus Christi for a firsthand look at the expected devastation.