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“And who is my neighbor?”—Luke 10:29

Fingering the small, smooth stones / in my bag, we ride the subway to Queens,

While river whispers / at his window, carrying night slowly / downstream, he rises, like a pre-dawn lark

"So often the path leads nowhere, backs up into brush, disappears, ends in a parking lot, butts into wire...."

a spinning jump rope, rising and falling, fickle as the wind...

FJ Poetry: "Sitting in bed she gazes at the river, ..."

FJ Poetry: "Standing at the cliff, saxophone..."