Robert Estep

A fork of hazel over the loam-bright field invokes the cloistered virgin’s ode: nails cleave…

Proud of hanging gardens but unable to understand their children’s words (past caring, perhaps) they…

Partially blinded, according to the grudging rules, and mounted on a donkey so as to…

The rain taps out a message so easily missed in an orchestra of sounds or…

She despairs of my agility and speaks to me a monotone as free of stress…

To rhyme rape and ripe and search, as though at half- shadow, for where reason…

I Look, it’s raining again, upon a field of Indian green. As it did that…

In a corner of the statue’s gougeable eye, the sea frets, vast reduced to a…

Drop, Aquila, rush me taloned. Tripe me to an eagle’s uncooked banquet. I am flung…

I Love of squalor is a gift, a magic to uncharm the creep of disappointment,…