Mud is the last testament to sediment, and sediment, every field's red tongue. Fields preach when the rain falls, run clean down every drain. Rain tilts continents builds shelves in the basement of oceans, like the preacher has a secret hobby beneath the steps. Love Poem Like the old tennis star found dead in the stone cottage, winter sprawls at summer's baseline, stiff as a poker. The seasons rally.
Love sets early and the match is over.
The fuzz worn from old balls. Water grown cold in the can. Oh, let us be true to one another. Let us string this season with gut, play each day like a shot clearly in. His poetry is appearing, or will soon appear, in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review and Puerto Del Sol.