Writing

So that one wrong class led me to the path of writing: poetry, story, novel, essays

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

I’d always been reluctant to teach online. And then I had to.

Editor of the Hudson Review

I think the joy comes out of my curiosity about the world

When I read, even my own work, I try to follow the line, its rhythms, its sounds, its inner voice

More Than a Handful is about revisiting childhood and seeing things both as a child and as an adult.