Posts
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A Sestina
Somewhere in the summer sun,
Where dandelions dance and sing
Along with the bluebird’s lonesome cry,
Alone, you’ll find me, lying there
Between the grass seed and maple leaves,
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A Question, a Cry
What
is this, this viscous liquid I’m drowning in, something dark and opaque, I cannot breathe—
What is
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I Stand
Slowly,
I stand,
simmering in the seraphic summer sun, softly
stammering silly sayings,
smiling at the shining sky.
Solemnly,I sit,
in the scenes of September, singing
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Moving
I’m moving.
I’ve found a little place in the Past,
It’s not much but I think it’s quite lovely, very dear,
And things aren’t working out Here,
So I’m settling for memories.
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It Begins
It begins —
This thing call Spring —
With sunshine and birdsong
Slowly infused into everything.
It begins with
Deep brown rivers gauged in viscous dirt roads,
As the frozen ground thaws and overflows.
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Nail Polish at Midnight
I painted my nails blue
because I couldn’t think what else to doto stop myself from thinking of you.
I didn’t realize until they dried,
it was the very color of your eyes:
Loves
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stone in the soup
It's late when I pull into this town. the square is lively as my car sputters stop feet away from vision.
its a party. the people of the town running around and around and around, with carrots potatoes tomatoes everything the town has
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behind slammed doors and silent screams
I cried in silence again.
The tears streamed down
And made puddles on my carpet floor
I'm lying on again.
I watched the minutes change again.
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stranger to blue water
sing to me.
i've been a stranger once more
to your hills and valleys, to the
gaps of sunlight between your grasping evergreens.
i've been a stranger
to the red barn
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the sentence that ends with a semi-colon
avidly existential,
dying words essential,
they're floating through my mind,
like an unfrozen astronaut,
cryogenically prepared
not to find
a program,
for this forgotten play
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average
You wake up in a white room. Not really a room, exactly, but it is a space. You think. You are there, so it must be, right? In front of you is a couch with a person on it.
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songs from an empty chair
I write this now, in loving memory of a man who has not yet left us.