From: Divine Honors Wesleyan University Press, 1997
The fingers of the rain are tapping again.
I send out my heart's drum.
Blood stripe on the feathered tulip dissolves into
All night a low thrumming.
Up, up the two-toned hosta
green from sopped earth.
Along your bruised ribs, cream bells.
November 26, 2012
July 21, 2016