RHYTHM IS THE INSTRUMENT

In the morning after cold rain–messy constellations smear the wet concrete—smashed ruddy knots of tree- buds wasted by...

Fat hungry robin out my window—I wonder darkly—are you ever bored? At first, I almost want your bobbing to seem to me ...

kissed awake by warm  dawn of May—morning smells; of coffee, lingering  coconut  mingled in the sticky  dark kitchen—shy crack o...

Romance might look  like all wild  woods  at first —some fervid uncurbed, hysterical  knots of old New England, but the real bo...

Endless so-forth and so- on of inestimably greenthick  spring grass—so young and teeming with brash yellow dandelions,  who dared p...

After a fast run — panting, latent sweat beading, euphoria waxing and quickening waves of nausea that sweep  down from secret sto...

Waiting in the slow  lane moaning, we watched  the bold sky clotting thickly over  with gluey cumulonimbus  clouds—arrayed in jazz...