Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
Falling The other side of that water, under that shelter distanced from your voice, as the lightning strikes a single fork, hitting the ocean’s horizon. That humid breeze, like an oven blast, slowly tips my patience and allows your eyes Continue reading Falling / Heat / The Weekly Ritual by Jonathan Butcher
Prism That guidance arrives like half formed words barely spoken; reticent in regards to any consequence. You shoulder this burden and project it back in the worst possible way. As that morning light burns slowly into our hangovers (mine twice Continue reading Four new poems by Jonathan Butcher
Patterns It was only a slight break from that four day trawl. that leaves us wounded with grazed, grit filled shins. We hobble forward limping with both legs, our carpets now torn from this peculiar dance. We await that final Continue reading Three poems by Jonathan Butcher