When poets die people say they have forded the river, crossed to the other side, flown with the birds to the last outpost. How many are left who'll keep sharpening a bit of language even as the leaves illustrate the old lesson of impermanence with their brightest inks? After days clouded over, the sun finds a way to jimmy the lock. But when it leaves, no one even misses it.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.