RHYTHM IS THE INSTRUMENT

Fingers of rosy  cirrus clouds  relinquish the day-old sun  to the heavenly gravity  of what's to come  in the world beyond the horizon....

Oddly,  there's exactly  one ecstatic condition  in which I become  my best and truest self— one state  in which I become  wise and disa...

If a poem  were a disease, it'd be the world's  laziest fever— one content to fester  slowly behind the scenes,  turning up your tem...

All around the world,  people long to share a bed. Little children crawl under the covers to snuggle  with their fathers and mothers;  men a...

The sleeptalk of winter  performs its glossolalic functions; the rain of romance breeds  its nonchalant flowers; everywhere,  medulla oblong...

There's nothing  you can do. Grace  doesn't hug you or invite you to come, and it never offers  grounds or reasons; it snags you  by...

Although she abhors  nothing that exists,  she scorns any sense  of that substance as precious;  bad enough  that she gives all  the same gi...