Sunsets and the Color of Walls

Minimum Wage Days

-4°

Getting Too Old For This

It's Ok, Really It Is

Direct Routes

Sean In My Driveway

October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad beer.

In jeans and denim shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,
wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.

But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either,
and don't even know the places to fish?

Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year
Raymond Carver

Cabin Life In Ohio

Camden Hills

Last Fall Was Not Your Last Fall

Kevin

The Ninety-Seven Waves Of Molly

The Fabric Of Healing Is Known As Time

    It is not the woman that breaks my heart, but the rainbow that trails her.

All Great Ghosts Are Alone

We Are The Monsters Under Our Beds

Silence Is Impossible

Book Binder Tie Me To The Sea

Haus Sit

Ghost Laugh

I have some work over here. There's no obligation to look, but look. Please.

You, Summer Nymph, Are No Summer Nymph

There Are Flowers That Belong To No One

Try

It Was Darkness That Kept You Away