Posts
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The Silent and Still
I think I live for the silent and still —
The friends you made against your will.
The evening light,
The morning mist,
The impossible odds that you even exist.
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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.
Loves
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Two Birds and No Stone
Don’t kill my birds.
Tommy pays taxes.
April runs a side hustle selling cursed bath bombs on Etsy.
They have dreams.
They have a 401k.
They just bought a tiny house in a haunted forest
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Dress
I'm wearing the same dress I wore last year, on an evening that felt like moonlight even though the sky was still a milky purple-blue by the time we left, arms linked, laughter spilling over each other and turning the air fragrant, because back th
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Joining Theater
I heard rumors of a great ship,
full of great people.
Did they have room for me?
I swam by the ship
and to my surprise,
I was welcomed aboard,
beckoned,
appreciated,
cared for.
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I Fell In love With a Pigeon
He flew into my life on a Tuesday.
All feathers, no job.
Smelled like breadcrumbs and bad decisions.
He coo’d at me like I was the last French fry in a drive-thru bag.
And I believed him.
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4
there are swans all around me
but they are blind
or i am invisible
and i don't know which
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What They Call Ghetto, We Call Home
They call it “the hood.”
We call it family.
They call it “ghetto.”
We call it culture.
It’s loud — but it’s home.
The ice cream truck rings at the same time every day.