It happened when I wasn’t looking.
It came, dragging its chains
of scorching days,
each fused to gather your image.
They could not bury them fast enough,
the rain thick and slippery, the mud a river,
and in the morning’s blue sky, a whip of cloud,
pink haze, great green vines hugging short trees to strangle
Not long ago, a noted academic
Told me, in reference
To my misuse of the word “polemic”
In an abysmal book review sentence,,,
An impulse as irresistible as in the acorn to germinate is in the soul of the prophet to speak. —Ralph Waldo Emerson. Bobby Barrow couldn’t seem to get the chicken and rice on his fork fast enough, as he shoveled it into his mouth much like he had been shoveling dirt