Posts By This Author
My Imperfect Calligraphy
My strokes are halting, not like the imagined fluidity
of the monastic scribes, hunched, by candlelight,
over some ancient text, perhaps the Our Father,
A Herd Of Pigs
There is no reason / for a white man to be here.
My Father's Hands
They used to prowl the house / like great brown bears ...
Lullaby, And Goodnight?
Being a parent is my vocation. I am not necessarily good at it, merely called to it.