A poem by Doug Muder, 28 December 2004 Back from vacation, batteries spent,only my cards carry charges. Camera, shaver, phone — I barely have sockets for them all. Their tiny lights blink at me, and I watch them.
Or “Mourning Person.” A poem by Doug Muder, 2006. These days I start my mornings in the Past with you. When the grayness before Dawn breaks through my window, when the trumpets of the Morning call me into battle, I resist. Holding my eyes closed tight, I retreat into my old half of the bed […]