Being at home a lot now, during the pandemic, has made me aware of things I wasn't before. This brief prose-poem explores that idea.
I don't think of myself as a collector, but I was a collector, once. At what age does it become unacceptable to put everything we love on display?
I wrote this short prose piece about teaching, but I think it can be applied to "self", too -- to trust the chances we take...
I've been experimenting with non-poetic forms lately, including flash fiction, like this 171-word story.
It’s difficult to explain to a non-dancer what the loss of partner dancing is about, this thing we chase week after week, night after night, but I thought I’d try, with this prose-poem.