Posts
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The Earth and the Sun
I fall asleep reading about duende, reading, radiating duende. That’s what Lorca’s poetry does: it causes my grandmother’s pitched voice to tremble with a terrible softness, like the moon liquified and stored in a jar. -
Soft Clay
she wakes like soft clay,
a notion pressed onto her face
the morning is as blue
as a low-timbered evening.
low enough to sway to,
vibrations etched into cracked lips -
Before you jump
Last night, I went down to the water just before it got dark. I sat on the seawall with my knees close to my chest and smelled the salt. The water was grey, but it reflected the burnished purple of the sky. -
In the Morning
In the Morning, I listened to Classical Music. -
Dying Daisies
what are we but dying daisies?
oh, holy one, one who is whole,
leave me without petals. I'm only
a yellow center ripe with pollen
that has not yet become honey.
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Propped Up Sky
Cycling along the flat cement at sunset, we hear the frog song. It swells, candid and all-consuming. It’s like drinking plain mint tea on a bitter evening. But winter is gone now, we must find our sharpness elsewhere.
Loves
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The Man
I met the strangest man today. He was dressed in a white lab coat, and he had a face like that falling sensation that jolts you awake when you're trying to fall asleep.
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VT
vermont is a half-finished poem with all the lines scratched out.
grandfathers who’ve lived here their whole lives still talk of leaving,
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Summer Camp
The dirty gravel path crunches under the tires of our Toyota. Dust rises around the car, blurring the tall vibrant trees hugging the road.
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Half-Remembered Memory
After Robert Frost's Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening
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i can't remember when i last said the pledge of allegiance
i know all the words, of course. who doesn't? we are practically
brainwashed into our knowing, having to stand and face the flag
(when did you learn that it was hand over heart &
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Edge of the world
The edge of the world
is not a finality;
it's a beginning.