After Weeks Of Watching The Roof Leak

A Reading Is A Kind Of Communion. The Poet Articulates The Semi-known For The Tribe.

Burning The Small Dead Branches Broke From Beneath Thick Spreading Whitebark Pine. A Hundred Summers Snowmelt Rock And Air Hiss In A Twisted Bough.

In The 40,000 Year Time Scale We're All The Same People. We're All Equally Primitive, Give Or Take Two Or Three Thousand Years Here Or A Hundred Years There.

I Thought, That Day I Started, I Sure Would Hate To Do This All My Life, And Dammit, That’s Just What I’ve Gone And Done.

Poetry A Riprap On The Slick Rock Of Metaphysics