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Click here for an interview and six poems from the forthcoming chapbook Mortals in the Making.

Always a man fallen deep in the wood-- a man not for us to know. At dusk, his wounds catch fire.   from Unfounded (FutureCycle Press 2015)

Find here and here in Claudius Speaks (Issue 5, January 2018) Seneca (detail from Exile)

First appeared in Tar River Poetry (Spring 2011) Playing House

First appeared in  The Worcester Review (Volume 34, 2014) What to be made of sparrows stuck   in the throat? What to be made of the girl   gasping in the shed, of dead trees holding up   sheaves of white sky, of the hillside green   clean of human breath?

First appeared in Heavy Feather Review (v. 3.4/Vacancies, February 2015) Four men were carried forth by the prevailing winds. The winds formed a face we have done much to forget. One of the men took cover in the mouth of its yellowing mention. Two others effortlessly played a part meant for one. There was talk [...]

First appeared in Caketrain (Issue 7, 2009) In the house there were men living like lemurs, lemurs living like men. The house called attention to itself in the way large children do in small rooms with smaller children. That is, on a hill, larger than the town in which it was part, there was the [...]

First appeared in The Boiler (2013), rev. 2015 MOTION IN A PATH TO MYSELF I grip the sudden memory and fade against the insane star. I stuff the shapeless wind with some raw idea of it and pause before the opening gate. I devise the flat escape and then axe the wrists of the witness [...]

First published in Vestal Review for Magic Mondays series (August 14, 2017) With so much time on his hands, he looked out: the moon. It had no family. But it had this way of asking for a companion,someone to see it through the night. What little it took, he thought, to give in. And so, he did. [...]

IIX She is a woman of tattered happenings. From province to province, she goes, talking and taking always the road that curves under the hand of god, as she is known to say. On her face, the wind is a quiet pretense, as if the air soft against her flesh in truth signifies a single [...]