The poet is in my ear, take notes, take notes, notes, notes, yes, notes. S. Brook Corfman I live with a poet in my ear. I live with a muse in my soul. I live paying attention and taking notes. Sometimes the poet screams telling me to do this o...

Not necessarily an urge, not immediacy, not definition as truth, but definition as when I notice the flex of my arm when I lift something heavy, to see a particular part working, straining, even, against something else, which is the measure of closin...

You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky. Butterflies too are few and so are flowers and most things that are beautifu...

I write this while my hands are shaking. John McCullough, Glass Men We hold each other when our hands shake. We hold ourselves when our hands shake. We breathe. We search. We breathe again and again until we find our breath. We rock back and fort...