Umbriate Press Poetry

Constant freshness of morning On the side of the mountain Along the field of slums Leaves the carriages Of wasting spirits  themselves behind a hinting time Passing under the sun Hung low and lost In the inescapable labyrinth Of age. Read more

Cloistered marrow, the syncopating drop, of illusory grace in bone and out lifts away as a limp without ever wiping the smile from its loins. Read more

vast horizon, a most sweeping apology to the slight curvature of life I call sapphophilia. Read more

Watching the unwitting the idea flutters: we are the poor. Read more

Today the ache of her smile smoldered, dropping from the frost-withered cherry blossom I used to call my home. Read more