What did you become, little one? I have the plans here. Drawings. An architecture of the face. Hands, moving then still. Feet so agile they can step into the next …

No one ever asks him to explain. Stacking the apples of a morning, seeing to his beloved cat. When do chores stop? His loved ones need. Clouds lock on the …

Hey hey whaddya say sing the voices of the cheerleaders. Speak, lips red as coral. Tell us when the wolves will return to Iowa. Follow the river back to its …

This wine exploding in the glass. My basket of purple. Red sonnet in my life. I can become French for a day. 12 Rue Jacob, Ste. Germaine des Pres. Receive …

The electorate has spoken. We will be governed. In the ballot, in the road. Here is the school, the church, the bright red convenience store. Meet under the sign, my …

Of joy. Leaves. Sun- stilled air. Cut fields littered with geese. Squirrels work those pouches. A thousand songbirds obliterate the neighborhood. Lie down under a tree. Watch the shower of …

Trains, trains. Stand on the spokes of the Roundhouse. Stand on the iron rungs of the world. Take your paints over to the Murray Hotel. Set up your easel there. …

Stephen Crane lies open on the table. Life is struggle, that is the given. It is also alive with glittering shards of color. Bloodreds, green and gold, the snow-froth at …

Punctuation is a prison. Break out, says the wind from the Crazy Mountains. Write free. No periods to stop. No to the bad old comma. Choose a horse instead. A …

He compresses all the music he owns into a tiny device no thicker than a wafer. Now, as he freezes his ass off on a road outside Butte, he puts …