I am the LORD,
the fat mosquito smiling
on the white wall: strike me down
and I reappear, thin and hungry
across the dark room.
I am a bellyful of pancake,
the sunrise quickening.
You cannot stop desire:
the Word tingling the tip of the tongue.
The body never sleeps: the mind
drifts through the night, the sand
shifts in desert wind,
and the moon lifts the tin sky.
Someone, or some thing,
is always chanting.
Frey is studying toward a Creative
Writing MFA at the University of Arizona.
Between coursework, teaching, and hiking
with his dogs in the desert, he
volunteers for the Poetry Center by
leading poetry workshops in schools, and
runs the Writing-In-Progress graduate
reading series for U of A creative
A pair of red tails soaring, the
ridge blessed and happy.
Vultures pack the air bursting with
Raven not alone on his sure road of
The boy fell and the girl drug the rope
Her hair twists in her hands to the day,
Never ends; his tin cross screams at the
base of the cliff.
A sliver of light shines brief. In the
The sun pauses, its light falls against
Arms, its light leaves the cross blind.
Her dark hair lifts in the wind,
His name called in the wind
Climbing the cliff,
The hawks never cease; their wings wind
The hours. How many times each year
The ocotillo bloom red.
The cloud-weep white relief:
Their ecstasy in singing, their joy