PoetryI am changing now the congregation of years not age so much as a ripening view and I have started speaking to trees one big gum surely hundreds of decades I stop and look hard where peeling bark reveals cambium whorls like human fingerprints and multiples of tiny crawling things are not...

PoetrySometimes late at night I play with my radio, trying to tune in the dead. A nine-band Panasonic, ears on the world, AM, FM and shortwave. I believe this is how those gone will reach me, thin noise disguised in a song. So I listen to language I don’t...

PoetrySitting with empty creels on the bright side of the water we believe there are no fish. Billy Hoops lands beers from the tumbling river and tells us the secret.   You get three chances with trout, he says. Dawn, because they are hungry; mid-morning, if they are curious; and...