Pull your oar
from the muck,
where stayed
in static,
you’d been
stuck.
Goodbye, Thomas Mac
Goodbye, Thomas Mac,
I saw you swinging in the back,
where the Spaniards built
the gallows in ’53. Continue reading “Goodbye, Thomas Mac”
An Echoless Place
Wax or wane,
dear Luna spins eternal
in an echoless place. Continue reading “An Echoless Place”