James L. White Poems

The sea here used to look
As if many convicts had built it,
Standing deep in their ankle chains,
Ankle-deep in the water, to smite
...

So I would hear out those lungs,
The air split into nine levels,
Some gift of tongues of the whistler
...

Cooking for someone can be loaded with danger.
He'll get here at six and I'm filled with a small fear
of conversation at the table.
...