Poetry

Bees love catnip; they go crazy for it; afterward, we drowsed, full of honeyed sweetness like the bees that browse

In the plaza, he pirouettes, juggling, glittering mysteries.

This did not have to happen. No, none of this had to happen.

Homely, lonely night. Venus shines against vacancy.He doesn’t paint the bars that keep him so far from starry

We, the silver birch. Villagers say we are The Three Sisters.

I start to think you stink like Beowulf