when the sun rolls itself over the ridge and spills out into the coulee sifting itself through the deer tick scalp of trees the thread […]
they’re cutting down rows of corn at the knees separating pieces of gold from outgrown garments gathering seed and leaving thin feathered battlefields my father’s […]
when the mirror was young and the skin around my eyes was taut I figured most things that stood to be true had written themselves […]
I move about my circles in an area of the American Midwest- the hills and unglaciated valleys of Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Iowa. It’s an area along the Mississippi River that local folk call The Driftless. I write poems to survive, to wash the raw noises clean, and to put the beautiful broken things in place.