Poetry

Now he notices the hills have turned…

Silas Peacham sits astride his aging Minneapolis Moline,…

Night opens a door into a cellar— you…

The next day the poem unwrote itself….

*You did what you knew how to do,…

All along this lost coastline where narrow afterthoughts…

When the axe slipped this morning I went…

— for Jane and David Mister Pogue rode…