Eric Williams

I dance like that cherry tree branch where midday lingers. I want to touch the wind, turn blue when the rain dies down, and listen to

North Along Dalton Highway Milemarker 115 A man in salmon wears strung bone. When he walks, he eddies dust. Fossil-crusted, all gravel. Etches a line with

Tidal Pull So many creatures meeting on this beach, the air is thick and filled with tiny deaths. Things that lived much deeper, carried to our

The year I lived on the beaches of Fort Lauderdale, in January, the city council issued a warning: beware of frozen iguanas falling from the trees.

Sunday, 9 November 2025, 3:15 a.m. Delia was awakened by a pounding on her front door, the classic cop knock she remembered from life back in

Ro leaps from one rooftop to the next on the morning of the funeral. Free. The word shimmers in his mind like the sunlight glinting on

My older brother JJ mumbles to himself like our mom always does when she’s pissed off. “Enter Sandman” plays from the same tape he’d been rolling

In the early days of motoring, when humans first cut through the garnet-bearing granitoides, potato sandstone, and Pelona grayschists of the canyon now called Mill Creek

When towns ban plastic bags in grocery stores, cashiers experience the fallout. Expect the question, “Would you like to buy a paper bag?” to be met

—for Gray St. Germain Gideon, 1984-2014 It’s these ancestral mountains, massive as grief, that dominate, sharp, angular, .............fragments .........................jutting out like fingers or hands. Split, shattered,