Some read in bed.
I listen,
fall asleep to Homer's mayhem,
the tape on endless play
...
'My paintings are my children.'
Fool! Come meet
An artist with no babies.
You bet she'd sell
...
What stern face gives water at the crossroads?
Fashioned in stone by nameless hands,
he glowers through centuries, waiting for thirsty passers-by
who bow before the dour eyes,
...
I’ve just understood:
the longer the flight,
the bigger the pack.
Nashville to Baltimore
...
One must move on.
Past violation.
...