you and mornings
13 July 2007
Vol. 7, No. 2
poetry, prose poem
In the morning my face wears wrinkles. Pants face. Sleepy pants. Face of demonic possession and lack of caffeine. God then is the sound of the faucet, the coffee dripping.
some hazards of the course
10 July 2007
Vol. 7, No. 2
poetry
I wish I could make you come
near, not worrying about fish or what your father
might think about the size of whatever's in anyone's pants. Our skin
peeling back like winter's slow walk across a continent.
