1. Great poets keep soft palms. There’s no poetry in working your hands until the skin calluses to wood and you can sharpen your fingers...

Smoke of fire swam toward the surface of the sky like some massive man o' war trapped in a harbor where it didn’t belong, as people, not...

I have seen rage: that stubborn anchor holding you to port. Depart, depart and drift forth gently toward the stars. By Jacob Ian DeCoursey