Twenty-twenty was a perfect year to do just that.” ...

Alike the bitter cup of grief, Alike the draught of bliss, Its progress leaves but moment brief For baffled lips to kiss.

I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems I have not written would reach from here to the California coast if you laid them end to end. And if you stacked them up, the poems I have not written would sway ...

Christmas is here: Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we: Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; ...

I didn’t live through the Christmas of 1929, but growing up in Nogales, the border was always there—constant, imposing, ...

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Your baby grows a tooth, then two, and four, and five, then she wants some meat directly from the bone. It's all over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet talker ...

beyond, below, overexposed water and sky wiped white. Some flecks out of focus are supposed to be boats. "'Double Exposure' was a kind of love poem I’d always wanted––earthy and witty, with a streak ...