Another Crossing

Vera’s death was just last December, and I am missing her on this May evening, as our forty-third anniversary approaches. I need time and space

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Old Saint Paul

Old Saint Paul, up and down your ripped up sidestreets, kids roam, hands deep in pockets, snapping ice with each step. Their mothers poke out

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Poem: Landscape

I drive across the High Bridge with Saint Paul sprawling before me, built on hills like Rome itself.

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