let him burn the house down
Tag: Richard Spilman
By Any Other Name, by Richard Spilman
My love is like a red, red begonia. Doesn’t work.
In This Season, by Richard Spilman
The snake splits open, unpeeling its old self against an exposed root.
Leeks, by Richard Spilman
. . . spring bullied us into wakefulness.
ICE STORM, by Richard Spilman
Trees like old men, bent with the burden of their bones.
In the Night Speaking, by Richard Spilman
Nothing comprehensible is more than it appears to be.
Joan Spilman 