Poems
writer
It was toward the end of September 1956 when the leaves from all the inner-city trees had already fallen.
Adam, in a horrid state, rouses himself up and searches about, no one to be seen.
I confess it again and again.
She had just started washing the cutlery when the phone rang.
Begin to deliver a verdict a long time coming: “Guilty. Guilty.”
The carols, decorations, and glitter drove Marko to anger.
Pete held the bundle of white cloth and in it, the rifle.
My eldest daughter lives in St. Mary’s Hospital psychiatric ward.
His ears buzzed—sound was returning to him.
