David Craig

This brood of vipers, fleeing from the coming fall, are torn between the need they own, and the fee they charge to get there. They wear their gifts for all to see, these would-be limbs on Abraham’s tree. The ax still takes its toll, to any pardoner’s roots. The winnowing fork is working . . . . Continue Reading »

He does not linger with scoffers in the slow swirl, bubbled stem of settled bar beer, the loiterers’ golden climb. He sweats all day, in Presence, mumbles among his tools. How could he be moved? He is the original natural man, moving in seasons built for him. His laugh is the laugh of water. He . . . . Continue Reading »