A wash of birdsFlocked across the skyThe sun persistedI forgot to cryAnd watched my prayer disappear in the distance Continue reading A Wash of Birds by George Kuchinsky

A little crate of figsHappy and translucentRain falling on my lips Continue reading Late Harvest by George Kuchinsky

My Goliath is internalAnd thus stronger than theAncient bruteAnd I feelThat the stoneI swingIs but a kernelThat will hardly do damageTo this human beastFerocious and hirsute Continue reading My Goliath Is Internal by George Kuchinsky