Bill Kimzey

Without Urging - after Jack Gilbert’s Music is the Memory of What Never Happened Your best move this weekend was slipping your red T-sh...

Biting Orange I pushed a thumb into the rind. Its bitter tear stung my eye. I didn’t like the work an orange required. The seeds, the s...

Periodic Evaluation In a witness room crowded by a TV trolley, stained by other protected lips a paper cup sits desiccated by fluor...

Amy Lemmon, poetry editor for ducts.org, accepted two (or 3) of my poems for the ducts summer 2010 edition. http://www.ducts.org/content...

His Big House Jack’s friends lit candles. Libby read Kindness . I shook all the hands— sustained embraces. When the last gues...

I hold a Bordeaux The glass tapered so the wine ignores the tongue worms down the throat into the brain’s meaty pit. In the browning ed...

Ode to a Pillow You slept nights in 300 count cotton. Maybe towards the end, Denise shrouded you in 500. Only today I noticed you miss...