Soon I’ll be 66. I have outlived Ernest Hemingway and Curt Cobain, two of my heroes. I never tried sleeping my way to the top of the literary heap, as others have done. I’ve won no prizes. My work goes unrecognized and more often t

Then you stopped abrupt.

The damaged sky is not more black than your hair, Ashen tonight and floating over the land in blackened Smoke, where the furrows run with milk light Or snow, blue and white, and the world-ash floats. Your patient body sleeps and the white pain

Then someone baits a hook for you

Sixteen hundred hens / suffocated / during the collection

now the days are empty and time has lost its head

But tonight while your finger glides across the glossy pages of Popular Science I hold a séance for the Holy Spirit in utter seriousness among the book clutter and crumpled manifestos in the basement

The forest wall whispers