Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
I Think Of This (for Duane) Bowl of me rest your head here hands, flat on my hips, and yes remember curve, softness, warmth each time you look at those hands Continue reading I Think Of This & Two other new poems by James Stansberry
Visions Of Two Cities, After Dark Sun and moon have now changed places like plate shaped window shades one goes up, the other down, and evening spreads a purple, silk over everything, day’s last clouds turned pink, then edged in Continue reading Visions Of Two Cities, After Dark & Four other new poems by James Stansberry