All Poetry Is An Ordered Voice, One

I Have Published In 'the New Yorker,' 'holiday,' 'life,' 'mademoiselle,' 'american Heritage,' 'horizon,' 'the Ladies Home Journal,' 'the Kenyon Review,' 'the Sewanee Review,' 'poetry,' 'botteghe Oscure,' The 'atlantic Monthly,' 'harper's.'

Every Christmas Should Begin With The Sound Of Bells, And When I Was A Child Mine Always Did. But They Were Sleigh Bells, Not Church Bells, For We Lived In A Part Of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Where There Were No Churches.

Corncobs Are The Greatest Fire-making Tinder.

The Sharpest Memory Of Our Old-fashioned Christmas Eve Is My Mother's Hand Making Sure I Was Settled In Bed.

All Poetry Is An Ordered Voice, One Which Tries To Tell You About A Vision In The Un-visionary Language Of Farm, City, And Love.