At winter’s final surrender, my kitchen becomes a graveyard for ants. Their bodies fall in clusters, form families of crumpled black petals beside an aging apple, last night’s forgotten toast. The poison...

/ h1 {text-align: center;} p {text-align: center;} div {text-align: center;} I think you’ll like it here the way you liked to join me at Harrison Hot Springs in the adult tub I...

Above the pushed-up daisies, the dead will wait with you, some fuss about, noctambulant or slowly pace the garden, limned in moonlight, some rise like wisps, phosphorescent, hovering above the bog. But...