Undertow
I, clinging, algae-strung, to the borders of you in this subterranean room, green wallpaper, mulching the curtain-washed light, dissolving clear morning in acid and spleen. your left hand gloomy in the dark, its moss-blotch stain of pencil l
sonnet for the new age
before contemporary verse meaning was contained in a frame solidified by ruling rhyme and iamb. we feared weaning poems off their infant structure defied all comfort reason and tradition raised into being an unbound form of word doomed to non-meaning only to be praised by howling radicals wit
