#AmericanWriters
I wrote a poem called The Local… the poem got lost long ago so did the crow still sometimes the black wings come across my min…
Crows are the color of anarchy and close up they’re a little scar… An eye as bright as anything. Having a pet crow would be like having Voltaire on a string.
Somewhere I read that when they finally staggered o… into some strange town, past drunk… hoarse, half naked, blear-eyed, blood dried under broken nails
Watch where the branches of the wi… See where the waters of the rivers… Graves in the rock, cradles in the… Every land is the holy land Here was the battle to the bitter…
The wood thrush, it is! Now I kno… who sings that clear arpeggio, three far notes weaving into the evening among leaves
Time says “Let there be” every moment and instantly there is space and the radiance of each bright galaxy. And eyes beholding radiance.
