Make it quick, my brother said, pressing his phone / to your cold ear. A priest was waiting…
Poetry
Smoke, Salt, Sweet (and other poems)
Burnt metal still stings the nostrils/
weeks later, drifts on perverse winds,/ settling into flag stripes,
Without One Plea (and other poems)
I might have been content with looking/ out a window early mornings over coffee, two more hours/ of overtime the only thing I’m thinking.