Octavos

The songs we sing when we’re alonehave all been heard by ears attunedto greater sensitivitiesthan we thought possible. Mirrorscaught our

The shortest story ever writtenabout a life not especially shorta story with an accurate beginninga precise middle and an exact

Flying solo, her soul power-packed back sparks a fired levitation.Steering towards the source, her burning brew glows and flows,flashing anew,

an astronomerstudies lunar fragmentsa life of signslike potsherds pieced togetherto build a vanished city Originally published in Spaceports & Spidersilk, c.

I write with the soul that is summer.With the blood of me people dancing like a firefly incased with heather.My

I step on the thread   even considersnipping the end   but   it’s too muchto find scissors             when opening thedrawer will lead

Let’s let it lie—the grace of all this being—like a dancing forest of winter trees.And these, palms, turned upward,have relinquished

She tumbles up,Cresting clouds’ peaksEmber wings embracingthe ecstasy of airFirst flight pyroclastic,Igneous ascensionfrom the ashen earth Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

Brave citadel of a valorous race,Strive no more but yieldWith the sun-ripened olive’s gentle graceBefore my fingers.Brave citadel, throw open

dawn stalks the dozing darknesstalons shake the blackness awakestruggling, the prey shrivels into the brightnessa vast mouth swallows the darknight,