Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
A WOMAN IN SEASON The last gray crust of snow breaks up like shadows, she is loose in a delicate world. Wanting to suck the tender tips of twigs, buds open on her tongue. From the wet skin of trees Continue reading A Woman In Season by Sharon Barba
I WANT A BLIND MAN Who shuts out circumstance walks slowly touching trees whose images are his own takes others as they come reaches to find me takes my body carefully in his hands places his just so lies in Continue reading I Want A Blind Man by Sharon Barba