I sing of heroes.
Of Achilles and Patroclus...

There are lines that cross the void between the...
and shape them to their fates...

As winter shuffles in and stomps its boots,
and autumn, fleeing, leaves the door agape...

Walking together down a path crowded with moss,
white oaks, and thorny bracken we pause...

The church was arched
with white and gold, pillared with...

The best writers have childhoods
where I have an empty jar...

I.
Mornings tumbled in bed...

It's storming outside, in that
theatrical, brooding, wallowing...

My dreams are stuffed and crowded with monsters
both human and beast...

Here is my deception,
made for the sake of my...

You, poet,
with your toes clenched in river mud...

There is goodness in living
a life like a young river...