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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Coffee Shop Observations
A young woman sits in a coffee shop in London, England, with her back straight, her head pointed forward, and her eyes wandering into the rainbow mists of Wonderland.
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Thoughts on a Sunset
It’s moments like these I wish would never end.
The sky would never fade into the dark.
The sea would never storm.
The news would never catastrophize,
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Roads & Rails
Sometimes,
they think the forests must have been constructed,
around the railroad.
That the tracks were built up from Earth long ago,
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The Lonely Beetle
The green lonely beetle tracked long through high rivers and the underpass.
By 6 pm it delivered a little girl with crooked cut bangs to a little tan house.
