More By This Poet
The last full moon of Februarystalks the fields; barbed wire casts a shadow.
Rising slowly, a beam moved toward the west
stealthily changing position
until now, in the small hours, across the snow
it advances on my pillow
to wake me, not rudely like the...
Once you said joking slyly, If I’m killed
I’ll come to haunt your solemn bed,
I’ll stand and glower at the head
And see if my place is empty still, or filled.
What was it woke me in the early darkness
Before the first bird’s...