Poetry

The Comma’s Complaint By David Holper How little…

Purple mussels clutch wet rocks push Chinese Hats…

Today a black bear walks      the creek…

Old moon rubs cue dust blue on…

We stop at them on the roadside, walk…

My father’s grandmother had love in her heart,…

Brambles wind through the fence intertwine with the…

Fog burns off under light saved for this…

September sun is just coming over the…

them vacant eyes stare right through us an’…

Now he notices the hills have turned…

Silas Peacham sits astride his aging Minneapolis Moline,…