Potential Titles: Shutta Crum

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Prone to the benediction of salt - Shutta Crum "Above the Strandline"

Voices lost in the dry hollows of bones - Shutta Crum "All That is Left"

Resolutely through centuries of remorse - Shutta Crum "All That is Left"

Who patiently knit dark hours into tangled shrouds - Shutta Crum "Always, there are mothers"

In the dark recess where one weeps for Grendel - Shutta Crum "Always, there are mothers"

Let the impatient wind push me - Shutta Crum "At the River"

Into canyons intimate with water - Shutta Crum "At the River"

Find forgiveness in the ancient light - Shutta Crum "Everything is Far"

Stopped clocks and voices cut short - Shutta Crum "Everything is Far"

Woven into the battlements of prayer - Shutta Crum "Everything is Far"

The kind of road that furthered dreams - Shutta Crum "The Highway of the Three Graces"

When I was young and sure of heart - Shutta Crum "The Highway of the Three Graces"

In a time of silent horizons - Shutta Crum "Hitchhiker"

Eroding words between brothers - Shutta Crum "How Poetry Reframes the Moment"

Dark seam woven of regret - Shutta Crum "How Poetry Reframes the Moment"

Amid the persistence of fireflies - Shutta Crum "How Poetry Reframes the Moment"

In the rustling music from cottonwood trees - Shutta Crum "Lavender Doe"

Bent against the angle of the Earth - Shutta Crum "Mausoleums"

Mindful of the engraver's task - Shutta Crum "Moab"

Found some anchorage amid our days - Shutta Crum "Navigation"

To float through star-littered fields - Shutta Crum "No Mansions for Me"

To bathe naked in the Euphrates - Shutta Crum "No Mansions for Me"

The silent chapel of a pine forest in winter - Shutta Crum "No Mansions for Me"

To sleep adrift in birdsong - Shutta Crum "No Mansions for Me"

The sweetest of windswept memories - Shutta Crum "No Mansions for Me"

Ancient algae, reptile tread, soot-filled skies - Shutta Crum "On the Beach"

Hurtling into that unrelenting future - Shutta Crum "Reading Brodsky (in English) While Stirring Soup"

Had taken root in the floodplain of your hands - Shutta Crum "Things Done Wrong"

Forgot to harvest the poems - Shutta Crum "Things Done Wrong"

Nightshade tucked neatly in his buttonhole - Shutta Crum "Things Done Wrong"


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