Poetry

Anthropology, what use are you in these days of singular, weekly visits to the market seeing only masked faces searching for a carton of...

In my loft A broken screen, dirty windows. A year later I still see the rooftops of the school across the street. No children or buses...

Kathy died on Wednesday, Nancy on Saturday. One from broken nerves, the other a broken heart. Still this morning the dog came in the dark...

I remember Pal, big and slow, his lowered head as I sat, my feet, toes pointed down in dusty sneakers, touching the middle of his belly...