Poets

Someone's walking toward you, tree to tree, parting leaves with the barrel of a rifle. There's a scope on it. He's been watching awhile through his good eye, you, washing dishes, scouring

for Cathy Snow is falling, snagging its points on the frayed surfaces. There is lightning over Lake Ontario, Erie. In the great

You're still young. Someone curled an arm around you as you slept, and upon awaking gently touched your face. The first sound you heard