A record of myself as an object that was forgotten. (Who Knows) (Copy)
A record of myself as the objects that have stood in the way of the river. (The Little Prickly Pear, July/17/2020) (Copy)
A record of myself as the objects that have stood in the way of the river. (The Little Black Foot, July/17/2020) (Copy)
Can I build with the shadows found along these Montana roads? (Copy)
returning home from the river driving over Mcdonald Pass an open harvest, a wide open bloom I sip my flat beer, unburdened by the confrontation of baskets in the sky here for collecting (Copy)
The foundation is in the sticks and the dirt. The honesty that remembers when the memory changed. (Copy)
I fed, a murder of crows, hungry alleycats, new train tracks, muddy water, the hatch, a night sky, bricks, an osprey, a fence post… (Copy)
when the man entered the store gabbing on about the crow in Iowa in the paper, Dad revealed, “I know that crow!” (Copy)
Trash was different here. It wasn’t like all sudden everything someone owned ended up on the curb of the church parking lot. No, it was like people had just moved in and they liked what they (Copy)
the lights in the valley reveal one home that everyone shares, a sky full of splinters (Copy)
my time, your time, and the fence post are all part of this (Copy)