Category: Poetry
-
John Tuttle If a book has not yetBecome a biomeOf de-composed matterAn abode of lice & creeping thingsA haunt for stationary mildew & moldDo the words on its papyrus pagesFail to convey a life all their own? *mold being “mould” preserved for the author’s integrity.
-
Jerome, Jerome, did you/ See how the light cut like/ A sword across the page?
-
Encircling It are many a shoot and stalk/ Conifers, laden, pining for the light of Daystar/ Lend resiny incense to the breeze and chalk/ Up their offspring to winds blowing from afar.
The Locus 