The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
My body arcing across your white placewe mingle color and substancewanting to mantle your coldI share my face with youbut love becomes a lieas we suffer through split masksseeking the other half-self. We are hung upin givingwhat we wish to…
It is the sink of the afternoonthe children asleep or weary.I have finished planting the tomatoesin this brief sun after four days of rainnow there is brown earth under my fingernailsAnd sun full on my skinwith my head thick as…
I speak to you as a friend speaksor a true lovernot out of friendship or lovebut for a clear meetingof self upon selfin sight of our hearthbut without fire. I cherish your words that ringlike late summer thundersto sing without…
I think of a coffin’s quietwhen I sit in the world of my carseparate and observingwith the windows closed and washed cleanby the rain. I like to sit therewatching other worlds pass. Yesterday eveningI sat in my car on Sheridan…
Nothing says that you must see me in the streetwith us so close together at that red lighta blind man would have smelled his grocer—and nothing says that you must say helloas we pass in the street,but we have known…
Now we’ve made a child. And the dire predictionshave changed intowildgrimspeculations. Still the negatives are waiting watchingand the relativesKeep Right On Touching… and how much curl is right for a girl?But if it’s saidat some future date that my son’s…
Martha this is a catalog of days passing before you looked again. Someday you will browse and order them at will, or in your necessities. I have taken a house at the Jersey shore this summer. It is not my…
Paper is neither kind nor cruelonly white in its neutralityand I have for reality nowthe brown bar of my armmoving in broken rhythmsacross this dead place. All the poems I have ever writtenare historical reviews of a now absorbed countrya…
That which is inside of me screamingbeating about for exit or entrynames the wind, wanting winds’ voicewanting winds’ powerit is not my heartand I am trying to tell thiswithout art or embellishmentwith bits of me flying out in all directionsscreams…
Rooming houses are old womenrocking dark windows into their whenswaiting incomplete circlesrockingrent office to stoop tocommunity bathrooms to gas ringsand under-bed boxes of once useful garbagecity issued with a twice-a-month checkthe young men next door with their loud midnight partiesand…