​The corner of Michelle Obama’s Becoming pokes out of my charcoal suede book-bag, collapsed on the wooden bench of a downtown cafe. It’s...

The speed at which things pass is robbery. Poems flash like strobes of light below trees and then are gone. For instance, on my way to...

Be quick with the details. They run fast like small children. Seize them by the sleeve, hook their hood, grip a hand. Grab hold of what...

I wanted to uncurl into the new day like a cat or a wave. But waking up today felt like swatting away spider webs—Obstacles that you...