Not even in remote territory.
The sun bleeds. The air is swallowed
into a dry gulch, an ancient echo.
Absence does not signify peace.
Absence is not the wind gone through.
A child may come this way, past
the small tree, next to the thorns.
Be safe, be whole, grow up,
go away. Forget that luck
is a slice of chaos. Mix up hunger,
howls and bad dreams,
the ones with shining eyes.
BIO
I was born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA and have lived in Seattle over thirty years. I’ve published poetry in such journals as Poetry, Rhino, Nimrod, Poetry East, Seattle Review, and others. My chapbook, There Are Crows in My Blood, was published by Pudding House Press. I’ve also published some fiction as well as stories and poems for children. Among the honors I’ve received are awards from the Seattle Arts Commission, Hugo House, and Artist Trust. And, I’ve been a Jack Straw Writer and held a residency at Hedgebrook.