The Federal Poet Fall 2012

Detail, Washington National Cathedral Facade by Coulter The Federal Poet Fall 2012

Vol. LXX, No. 2

THE FEDERAL POETS c/o 11919 Moss Point Lane, Reston VA 20194 http://blehert.com/TheFederalPoets/poetindex.html facebook.com/TheFederalPoets Introduction

THE FEDERAL POETS is the oldest continuously active poetry group in the Washington D.C. area. First convened in 1944, it is a membership organization open to all poets without regard to race, ethnicity, nationality, religion, or political affiliation.

Members of the Federal Poets meet at the Tenley Public Library, 4450 Wisconsin Ave. NW, Washington, DC, on the third Saturday of every month to read, analyze and discuss their poetry. Visitors are always welcome. Members and visitors who are planning to attend should bring 16 to 20 copies of a recently written poem for distribution to those present. The poem will then be discussed with a view to enhancing its chances for publication.

The Tenley Library is located near the Tenleytown-AU Metro on the Red Line. There is some parking in the library lot and street parking within easy walking distance.

The chief aims of this organization are to improve the members’ poems by the exchange of constructive criticism and to increase their exposure through publication and readings.

The Federal Poet, containing the best poems submitted by members, is published semiannually. Local and corresponding members receive it and may submit poems to the editor for consideration and publication.

For membership information, write us or visit our website.

Subscription for non-members(U.S.) $15.00 (2 issues including standard mailing) ISSN 1041-4886

President, Federal Poets: Don Illich Vice President: Judith McCombs Treasurer: Pam Blehert Membership: Cary Kamarat

Editor: Pam Coulter Blehert Publication design and typesetting: Words & Pictures East Coast Cover Design & cover art: Pam Coulter Published by THE FEDERAL POETS Table of Contents

The Names Of Things...... 1 Dean Blehert Word List...... 2 Mary M. Sesso Knowledge...... 3 Edna Small Dew Into Others...... 4 Lee Giesecke Aubade...... 5 Edna Small The Blessing of Peacocks...... 6 Miles David Moore Rite of Spring...... 7 Tim Hudenburg Yuccas...... 7 Charles Gerald DuBose Jr. My Answer to Your Poem...... 8 Marjorie Sadin After a Long Absence ...... 9 Herb Guggenheim The Escape Artists...... 10 Don Illich Earbuds...... 11 Cary Kamarat All a-Twitter...... 11 Cary Kamarat Red Makes Me Feel Like Running...... 12 Mary Sesso Color Wheel...... 13 Pam Blehert Jaylen...... 14 Marjorie Sadin Fate...... 15 Alec McRae A Message...... 16 Pamela Passaretta Taos Pueblo Artist...... 17 Sandy Goldsmith Haiku...... 18 Nadine Rogers So-Terry...... 19 blair ewing Dingle Peninsula...... 20 Bonnie Naradzay The Rendering...... 21 Andrew Jarvis The Mushroom Island...... 22 Ninie G. Syarikin Time for Grapefruit...... 23 Beth Stone Truss Bridge...... 24 Alec McRae September Twilight...... 25 Ingeborg Carsten-Miller Shaping the Wind-Laughter...... 26 Ginger Ingalls I Stepped on a Crack...... 27 Edna Small A Feast of Words...... 28 Ron Vardiman Stopped Just Short...... 29 Clyde A. Wray Fallen Evergreen...... 30 Mary Westcott The Qualities of Help...... 31 Pam Blehert Gone...... 32 Alec McRae The Names Of Things

Death is no big thing. When I met him, he looked like me, but without the beard. An old friend turned up the same day, but said nothing much. When I went upstairs to my room, just to change clothes, the one who was me went along, as if to change clothes too. “Who are you?” I asked: “You aren’t just someone.” He replied:”You are the one who refuses to know the names of things.”

Then he was close before my face, breathing on me; I let go, drifted like a feather, hearing from his mouth my own and other voices saying who I was, what I’d done, accusatory, I guess, but not close to me. Then he blew me back into the tightness of my temples. There the dream stopped. (I never went back downstairs.)

Overcast dripping morning, walking the dogs, who stare mutely as usual as I leave, then wet asphalt, the freeway, thinking, soon I’ll die; then thinking, no, it’s this distance, this letting go, happening now: “Soon I’ll die” is just a name for it. If we name things truly, they become themselves and can leave us. Death, too, is the name of a dream that is going away.

Dean Blehert

1 The Federal Poet

Word List

Some words don’t stand around with their hands hanging at their sides. They’re busy trying to catch our attention.

A few are plug-ugly. Slud and slub come to mind as does niche, which forces the lips to mimic the shape of a toad.

Bilious, like a preacher dressed in black, brooks no argument. It just is.

Serendipity sounds syllable-happy— if it were a company, it would reorganize then pronounce itself, ser-pity.

This just in. Pretty mellifluous showed up at a photo op wearing six consonants in a tiara and swore they were diamonds.

Nurturer fizzles and sparkles ever so gently. It walks around in bedroom slippers— the quiet angel we aspire to be, though more than half will flunk the test.

Then there’s hussy—all impolite red lips, skirt hiked up, a three-alarm fire strutting in rhinestone heels that click down Main Street.

Any sweet trick can flag us down and seem dear as gold, but will turn godawful pale if not dipped in sweat now and then and set on fire.

Mary M. Sesso

Published in Zillah 2 Fall 2012

Knowledge

I can only write about what I don’t know

What I know slips like a minnow between pen and page

Edna Small

3 The Federal Poet

Dew Into Others

When you favor the right to end a pregnancy you’re called pro-choice. You envision a world where all children are chosen. But you’re pro-life in the sense that fewer species will become extinct. Your motto: If only all could say, “I was wanted.”

When you force a woman to have a child she does not want you’re called pro-life. You envision a world where no potentially conscious creature is ever killed. But you’re pro-choice in the sense that others have the right to agree with you. Your motto: When I fucks ‘em, they stays fucked.

Lee Giesecke

4 Fall 2012

Aubade

My mouth furry with the morning I fight to curl beneath the down that blankets me. My mind floats free. I know more now than I will know when I rinse sticky slumber from my lids, swirl mint against my teeth and tongue, tingle awake.

Even as I put my glasses on my vision fades. Desire morphs into doubt. Pros and cons confound me. Glaring screens, staccato news, assault me.

I have lost silence.

Edna Small

5 The Federal Poet

The Blessing of Peacocks

for Hilary Tham

It was dusk at St. Mary’s; the last of the light whispered down lawns that sloped to the inlet. You were parking your van with the Chinese horses rampant where you painted them on the hood when, square on the grass in front of us, a peacock fanned in full his courtship feathers of lime, teal, coral, lapis lazuli.

I joked I didn’t realize your van resembled a peahen so lusciously. But this is what I’ve always wished for you: the unexpected blessings of jeweled nature, pure scenes of grace that take the form of flowers bowing before you, or the dance of birds in tribute to one who makes things beautiful.

Miles David Moore

6 Fall 2012

Rite of Spring

We prepared Ourselves, sacrificial offerings at this early hour Before the sun could catch us aware. This day of spring equinox; This day of winter’s end When fertility would be restored to fallow fields And ourselves most of all.

Tim Hudenburg

Yuccas

ornamentals planted outside a suburban branch of C&S National

Bunches of blades guard the bank and menace the sidewalk. Uncanny plants with tough leaves narrow, spine-tipped and troughed out like long canoes. Like long canoes launched upon the air, prows bristling.

Stalks of plum-like fruits hang in soft, wrinkled, ripening bags above the leaf-spikes. Vulnerable-looking bags of fruit. Like men's ball sacs dangling above a host of upthrust barbarous spears. Like trophies.

Charles Gerald DuBose Jr.

7 The Federal Poet

My Answer to Your Poem

You are like a boy with a kite. The kite might get caught in a tree, but you always get it down, and it flies again. You are used to flying. Flying in your dreams is sex. You covet sex. You imagine what it would be like without flying. You have this “man thing” that you are afraid will be like losing your kite, that part of you which isn’t even necessary. But you have been flying kites all your life and you know just when that wind will sweep it high in the sky, higher than it ever has before. And to be without that, just like a man with two feet on the ground, a man who cannot fly makes it feel like something you cannot live without. So, I am left to comfort you, knowing what I do about kites, that without it you can feel the wind in your hair, soft kisses, the smell of cherry blossoms and the cricket’s call. That life is about more than kites, and flying, and I say this with all the love in my heart.

Marjorie Sadin

8 Fall 2012

After a Long Absence Princess Lisa Returns to Pose a Startling New Set of Interrogatories

“So you were seeing two women at once and didn’t think that one of them would leave? Are you really that much of a dunce? Tell me, did you honestly believe they’d sit around and wait for you to choose which one to wed and which to throw aside? It sounds to me like you missed all the clues that one—or both—would leave you. You denied your own participation in events. You saw them both yet still had to seduce an endless line of sluts and innocents. No wonder she got sick of your misuse. And now you come to me and cry boohoo because someone that you really loved left you?”

Herb Guggenheim

9 The Federal Poet

The Escape Artists

Why was there more than one of us? Because it was more shocking when we both exploded from the safe, unharmed if short of breath, dressed in sparkling blue uniforms to signify our amazing natures. Other times we’d plunge into water in chains, stay in the icy deep for several minutes beyond what we should’ve been capable of. When we emerged it was like exiting the underworld, coming across as fallen angels who didn’t need anything on this earth, much less the applause that avalanched over us. They didn’t see the tricks we had developed, the broken links, hidden keys, the practice of bending, pulling muscles. Why would they imagine this hard work when their life is about not enduring pain or danger? Sitting at desks they quit if they feel eye strain from staring at the computer screen, would rather drop change in a vending machine than walk to the fridge for a carrot or orange. We suffer so you don’t have to, is what we think. As an example of near drowning we are the sacrifice you won’t have to make now, to short circuit your life with big flashes of lightning, risks that could suffocate you if you guess wrong. To us, the important thing is the process— the lack of oxygen, choking on water. This is where we’re alive—not when you salute us, but when we praise ourselves with deaths you can’t see.

Don Illich

Rattle #36, Winter 2011

10 Fall 2012

Earbuds

Earbuds to keep the life sound out— recycled rhythms canned and stoked to keep fires burning gaze hard-fixed on palm and screen— she misses hands, and winks, and hugs, still—Solitaire was good today.

Cary Kamarat

All a-Twitter

He’s twittering at the pissoir, he’s texting at the STOP. Our neworld nerd’s a techie, a 21st-century fop. His cuppa tea ain’t socializin’ if it means some eyes-to-eyes an’ might be caught politicizin’ leaning on his mop: He’s, twitteringnow, then, lateron, when-he-gets-a-chance, wait-a-minit, wait-a-minit, holdon holdon LAWD! HE’S SKYPING AT A TROT!

Cary Kamarat

11 The Federal Poet

Red Makes Me Feel Like Running

My grandson, age 9, gave me a copy of a poetry exercise he did in school:

Chaos is black, it tastes bitter and smells like burnt marshmallows. Red makes me feel like running.

I tape it to the refrigerator. But after he leaves, I wonder, what’s the good of my imagining if it doesn’t startle the self, bring color into focus, like Kevin did, and conjure madder,

turquoise, gentian and gold, along with colors that don’t yet know their names. I could roll them up into balls to keep in my pocket, like good- luck stones, stroke their brightness

with my bare hand, then hold them out in front of me to ward off night creatures dipped in black.

Mary Sesso

Published in Homestead Review

12 Fall 2012

Color Wheel

Heliotrope's a volume in the neighborhood of pinky-blue in a rainbow. There's no conflict here. No one's said you couldn't overlap, leaving waves of lilac, amethyst, forget-me-not tickling violet and cobalt.

You could pause at a point where, with equal ease, emerald or spring green slides to apple green or teal.

But not earth.

Earth would be closer to the center down deep between the prongs of red and green, blue and orange, yellow and purple.

And even then who knows precisely where dark stops and absolute black begins.

Pam Blehert

13 The Federal Poet

Jaylen

Jaylen dozes in class. His little brother kicks him in bed so he can’t sleep at night.

I am his tutor. He hugs me. I say, “not allowed.” Reluctantly.

He is like a man Taller than I am and only 10.

Jaylen is at the 3rd Grade level, ADD and socially mixed up. Whatever he reads doesn’t matter Now he reads sentences instead of sounding out letters.

And now he is teaching his younger brother how to read letters And he is a man to his brother.

Marjorie Sadin

14 Fall 2012

Fate

The car skidded sideways on the ice, out onto the wrong side of the road. The approaching traffic — headlights blazing — closed in.

My name, my past, my future broke free and were left silently behind further and further away. I was helpless like a boy in a playground surrounded by bullies.

The approaching cars had huge halo lights. They glared on me as I wrestled with the wheel in a transparent terror that floated like ectoplasm.

The seconds slowed — there were spaces between them — they grew as big as houses. You could pause, breathe in, breathe out before being crushed.

Then the gear caught. The car broke free and scudded clear across the road onto the shoulder. A post shot up and cracked — a sharp clang — it flew away as I shuddered to a stop.

Then — stillness. I sat back in my seatbelt and saw someone coming through the whirling darkness.

Alec McRae

15 The Federal Poet

A Message

I walked by the bleachers Head high and smiling My hair blew in the sunshine I stared at my three best girlfriends They all were chatting I stood on my tiptoes I yelled up CIAO BABES I waved at my girls All but one grinned She hid behind the other two Slowly her newly wrinkled face appeared She jumped from side to side Waving back at me laughing

I woke up from this dream With prickly pain in my arm After breakfast I called her She’d had rotator cuff surgery yesterday Her shoulder is still hurting Our friendship is too—

A year ago our husbands stopped talking We haven’t seen each other since.

Pamela Passaretta

16 Fall 2012

Taos Pueblo Artist

The only light in this dwelling made of earth and straw and water comes from a ceiling grate. You sit beneath it, surrounded by counters of your art — clay that you swirled into tawny-colored bowls and plates, teal blue and burnished red candles you dipped and soaps you made, all smelling of rose and jasmine and lilac.

Like others, I have come to gape at your thousand-year-old adobe home, one of many layered with common walls and no connecting doorways. I wonder at your life without electricity or running water.

I pay for the soap and candles and you thank me in English then speak Tiwa to someone else.

I watch you dole out my change with worn hands, your long hair weighted down by a stark existence, your rounded torso dressed in stoicism. The lines of your mouth seem burdened with betrayal; your smile, cold as onyx.

From where you sit, you speak your native language again, this time with a lilt in your voice, as if to sing out, as I turn to leave, that tradition lives on.

Sandy Goldsmith 17 The Federal Poet

Haiku

The lizard jumps out of the elevator! Fear is no small thing.

Hot asphalt, burnt rubber smell; the snake basks.

He’s just relaxing— that squirrel stretched out flat on his belly.

On a bush purple with bounty, Red Admirals duel for nectar.

Each year he returns; the cardinal belongs here as much as I do.

Nadine Rogers

18 Fall 2012

So-Terry

Thallium stars swirled, drifted on the moonless tide of my black-matter blood above my smooth recumbent head or so the anonymous monitor said as an enormous camera slowly orbited my dry tongue of a bed.

So-Terry’s tight mouth won’t say outright but it tells: she must take my blood again, back it out through the needle’s eye, dim my wandering spirit as my dreaming mouth fails to form the proper sound of her Hmong name.

blair ewing

first published in Jones Av (CAN)

19 The Federal Poet

Dingle Peninsula

I’m out behind Fran Ryan’s, near the hedgerow furious with fuchsia and blackberry vines, searching for clothespins, hanging laundry on the line. Marvelous, the way shirts flap and wave their arms this windy morning at a rainbow fading from a backdrop of gray. The astounding sky is clearing in the west. Here above the bay I can see Skellig Michael jut up from the Atlantic, eight miles from land, that otherworldly slab of rocks where monks, like the Desert Fathers, sought holy solitude, six centuries after Christ. Attacked by Vikings, the windblown monks saved rain, boiled herbs, ate fish, and plundered eggs from puffin nests. Amid winter gales, they chiseled endless flights of stairs and built oratories on the highest ledge. Oh, let me always live in these ecstatic winds, about to fall in, where windhovers climb the sky and the blown wash flies off the line.

Bonnie Naradzay

first published Autumn 2012 issue of Atlanta Review, finalist for 2012 International Poetry Prize.

20 Fall 2012

The Rendering

The arc of the whaling canoe, carved from western red cedar, crashes into the cresting wave in search of the hunted humpback.

And on the beach, the tribal pit awaits the hauling of the hump and the carving of the whale’s flesh to mark the feast of whaling fat.

And high above the potlatch pit of charred harpoons from whaling men, the briny black and white tail fin, will char and crown the melt of wealth.

The skin, the bone, the meat, the oil, they call these Makah in their chants of tribal songs and traditions to fire the burning of blubber.

And then they dance in rendered oil and pry the sea-soaked bones from skin to craft their ornaments and tools from whalebone ribs and sinewed sand.

Andrew Jarvis

21 The Federal Poet

The Mushroom Island

The miracle of the earth I found, when I was stranded in that tiny island, in the middle of the ocean. The people of the land were so down-to-earth in their welcome that I, a stranger, was taken aback, wondering what they wanted from me. So different from the custom of my country. “Welcome! Welcome!” they exclaimed. “Please drop by and share our meal.”

Rain had showered for two days, when the sun shone on the third. Dews were sparkling on the grass, like the crystal drops. Throngs of women and girls with rattan baskets on their backs came to my hut with smiles from ear to ear. “The rain has stopped; it’s time to come out today,” they shouted. “The mushrooms have sprouted and are waiting to be picked.”

Sedated but curious, I went along. They, however, treated me just like one of them; a long lost one, to be exact. I was brought to the forest, upon which I saw a spread of natural carpet of rich varieties of mushrooms. I was awed! My newly-found friends were running here and there, excitedly harvesting, dancing merrily and singing along . . . . . in a language I don’t understand. But soon enough I became one of them; gladly so.

That evening, we were dining, sitting on the mat, savoring the staple with the deliciously-cooked hand-picked mushrooms. My host family was gracious beyond words. “Ninie,” the woman of the house remarked. “We’ve been blessed with your presence; we’re sad, but happy for you, to see you leave tomorrow. But, know that the next time you come to Seliu Island, you have a home. Our house is your house; our food is your food.” I nodded deeply and was humbled.

continued . . .

22 Fall 2012

(continued)

I was oblivious at how long I slept, when I heard the roar of a helicopter hovering above. My throat swelled. I’d learned so much in a short time about generosity in simplicity.

One last look from the sky, down there, that floating lone paradise amidst the sea. Not sure if I’ll ever spot it again; but if I do, I know that their house is my house; their food is also mine.

Ninie G. Syarikin

Time for Grapefruit

O, Grapefruit—stop your rollicking, rambling, roll- ing wild on a plate. Why place your fruitness on it? It can’t contain you. Your twinkle of pink won’t fit. That bold yellow dimpled skin should chill in a bowl. So slow your tempo down. Relax and breathe into membranous veins. Just take this one in half time. Extend your measure. For soon as your body’s halved you need to rest—a ceramic hammock, deep enough to catch your ruby red blood. Prepare to die. Your one offense? You do not suit your half-true name. Grapefruit. With your swan song bitter- sweet and your face shining up from its final restware. You protest the probing gouge with furious spittle. Now all that remains is ambrosia—seeds and juice.

Beth Stone

23 The Federal Poet

Truss Bridge

We approach the bridge quietly. The girl in the river doesn’t see us till we’ve stopped to check her out. There are no catcalls, whoops, none of the things that young men do, not in this war of shadows and hurtling missiles. Even the most stupid of us is silent, rapt. She might be sixteen or twenty, sunk thigh deep in green water, her honey skin taut as a glistening drum, bright white teeth clenched between rouge red gums. Absorbed in her task, what is she doing? Fishing? Bathing? Or shaping a Semtex charge with hidden fingers to blow us all to hell? And then she turns to see muzzles pointing at her like opaque eyes, holds tiny hands up high to show they’re empty then sinks in the water, eyes full of hate; the trance broken. “Move out!” Crouching, cautious but moving very fast we cross the river into the trees. If I can live another 13 weeks, it’s over.

Alec McRae

24 Fall 2012

September Twilight

Swimming in the twilight with a full moon slowly rising waters sing turquoise blue shining from below. The world recedes in unimportant waves. Only this moment counts. Time seems extended into the far West — East-South-North —

Could I go on floating — stroking the cooling blue in September — October — in twilight — forever —

Ingeborg Carsten-Miller

25 The Federal Poet

Shaping the Wind-Laughter

Leaves are falling fast. It is the autumn wind. Gliding or gilded, like energy. Mine...

I wonder what you feel.

I live; most walking seems like life is blessed.

The climax of walking today was inhaling a sort of autumn flower... a perfume. Yes, blessing life begins in the womb, and begins with the flower...a sort of inward planting. A gust of wind blew tree leaves overhead (and still on their tree) to touch my hair. My exhalation was a long breath of contentment.

Ginger Ingalls

published in the audiobook, “Blessing," Fall 2012

26 Fall 2012

I Stepped on a Crack

I broke my mother’s back when I was born. No, not then. Then she stayed in bed, and cried a lot. I made her sick.

When I was little, I didn’t know it but that was when I broke my mother’s back. She turned to yell at me, and fell down the stairs.

She never picked me up again. But I have a secret power. I keep it hidden. I can even make you blind, if I want to.

Now I’m this many…one two, three. Then I’ll be four. I wish someone would pick me up. Nobody can. Or maybe they don’t want to. Because I’m so bad. I’m full of poison. I could poison you. Or make you dead, like the goldfish they flushed down the toilet. I make Nanny keep the stopper in the tub so I don’t go down, too.

People are always telling me Alice, speak up, don’t swallow your words. But words have secrets…they make me strong.

Maybe if I throw up the stuff that makes me do bad things, you will hear me.

Edna Small

27 The Federal Poet

A Feast of Words

Now joyfully I speak the golden words, though in my youth I seldom said a thing, attending carefully to all I heard and read, but never filled my hungering. The feast was vast, the language rich, the thoughts delightful. All my powers were brought to bear; I’d found the sum of everything I sought, devouring sweet words from everywhere.

But is it right to gorge alone in silence, and like a miser hoard what’s not my own? Then I’ll grow richer when I give these presents out with joyful rhythms and sweet tones: from many platforms will my voice resound that all may share the treasure I have found.

Ron Vardiman

28 Fall 2012

Stopped Just Short

Even with the drunk holding up the bus shelter at the bus stop on Main Street in the soup like fog he stood silently and said a little prayer to whomever it is that gave Him breath to breathe the chemically-laced air he thanked Him/Her for the highs he thanked Him/Her for the lows he thanked Him/Her for those places and spaces he’d yet come to know thanked Him/Her for the flight of birds he was able to see thanked Him/Her for the heat of the day and the shade of trees and made a point to thank Him or Her for the bus driver that made it through the fog and stopped just short of removing both of his knees

Clyde A. Wray

29 The Federal Poet

Fallen Evergreen

Needled by disease and regret, you remind me of a slanted evergreen. I am punished with longing for the husky bark of your words, the bare roots of your sad spirit. Together in the forest of sorrow, we have been felled by forces too gnarled for words. You gave me rings of promise dropped like pine cones onto a bed of barbed needles. You are the Christmas of what could have been. I cut your tree down in the woods of lost childhood dreams. As I lean into your memory, my heart is darkened with the tar of your drinking and scarred by your marriage to someone else.

Mary Westcott

30 Fall 2012

The Qualities of Help

I want to help him. He doesn’t want my help. He’s been helped too much. Help has a terrible meaning.

Relatives want what’s best for him, will recommend an old folk’s home (oh, sorry, that’s “assisted living” now, another word for help.)

The social worker wants to evaluate him, figure him out, categorize him. This will help him. Then the psychiatrist can help him, (sedate him perhaps.)

The fire inspector wants to help him, wants him to clean up his place, wants him to comply with fire codes, get rid of those letters to a Harvard alumnus.

His brother wants to help him, has taken his money and invested it wisely. His brother says he has plenty of money, (if only he could figure out where it is.)

He is wearing old sweats and a grey hoodie and he looks like a vagrant. Maybe everyone will just go away.

I want to help him. He doesn’t want my help. If I try too hard, he will make me hate him.

Pam Blehert

31 The Federal Poet

Gone

Nothing matters to the dead. That’s what’s so hard

for the living to take in— their complete indifference

to our entreaties, our attempts to get in touch— they aren’t observing us

from a discreet distance, they aren’t listening So how long a silence to a word we say— will it take to convince us that we’re the ones deep down we know that, but we don’t believe it. who no longer exist, We keep waiting. as far as the departed are concerned; that they’ve

forgotten every little thing they ever knew about us, what we told them

and what we didn’t have to, even our names mean nothing to them

now—but our throats ache with all we might have said if we’d had the chance.

Alec McRae

32 The Federal Poet Fall 2012

Detail, Washington National Cathedral Facade by Coulter