Poetry

When an old journal becomes a new and re-purposed journal, I tend to find bit and pieces of past writing scribbled in margins...

We Are Not the Vines They say we are the vines, Growing and branching out. But they’re wrong. We are the fences, Bending over from the...

I do not know why the leaves swallow me whole And the grass laughs from below Why the branches shake at me Why I’m drowning in stale air