I've been all baited breath waiting to tell you: I've just finished the manuscript for my second book of poems!Read More
I've been writing poems since I was 14 years old. At least, those are the earliest poems I've saved, or that I know anything about. It seems to me sometimes that I must have started earlier though.Read More
I just found this poem from David Harrity’s book These Intricacies.
To know that there’s room enough for dusk in the body,
step out in open air and breathe–the day downing.
What it is to end is what begins us each time over.
A walk to think it over–the hour when day slips off
and crumples like the linen of a summer dress
to reveal the forms that humble us.
There’s a word to say for each imperfection we possess,
for failures making good on even smaller promises,
to beat back times we entertain our little wrongs.
And what it must be like to turn away the dark,
to call down light from stars–poverties we have
hung bare, a constant grain for each of these mistakes.