Latest Works

Christened by the black pulp of a young vine berry, I hold my home in the creek bed’s westward bend Where the Polaroid flash of fireflies...

Part I: Their ship wasn't meant for oars, but they brought them above deck anyway. They tied the sails down, securing them with ropes to...

Everyone is called here once in their life. Some die on the journey; rarely will a person die before the feeling consumes them: the...