Lenore Weiss

I leapt across the sinkhole along Leona Canyon, the place where I hike past Bay Laurel Trees and buckeyes, a stream now subdividing the pathway into gravel and soggy leaves,

1. RFK and JFK, a bridge and an airport, but in another part of NYC, I leave my sister in the ground, it wasn’t a heart attack, just some ploy

Using  two opposable thumbs my future unfolds never a dull moment– at the gym between sets, at the cashier waiting on line, watching the evening news, talking to you from

I share the road with the darting lizard, greet other hikers where before there was only a quickening to save myself from saying hello. I hear a horse neigh, reminded of a

Flat like an envelope begging to be opened, scolding me for not making a donation or missing a sale. For the life of me, I don’t want to give it a