bus to somewhere else

There is a symmetry in odd places.


outside looking in

As I got closer to the door, I thought less of the thing on the other side and more about the flow of light – the way it cascades like water in undulous, radiative motion.  The way it comes, brilliant, from a source, and spreads like the rays of the Sun King’s crest – a halo of crespuscular rays.


The nights around here are like good poetry.  The phrases are brief and sparkling – never lengthier than the stretch of my headlights through the unwinding roads.


I’m writing in black ink today, which is psychologically more daunting than blue.

you may delay

The one that holds fast to my son’s finger lingers a while, a portion of its allotted thirty-six hours spent here under the breath of a three-year-old boy.

Leaving the funeral (3/19)

Moving from where we're at, always to where we're going, and never really returning to anywhere we've been before.

It shall be.

I feel my roots stretching out beneath me, moving through the dark past like branches move through the air.

a comforting ritual

My wife told me all of this after I’d carried my daughter inside.

the long tail of Winter ’16

It opened me up with some playful jabs - Midwestern winters and their own kind of howling haunt - and then laid me out with a haymaker so rapid that I didn't even feel it.

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