The roof is bright here, therefore it must be pouring again. Our sky rains when it’s dim and pours with clear ultraviolet. . Leaves with hacksaw rims going brown, the cold hangs over so they missed their equinox hues, last year the cold hung, and gave a kaleidoscope. . We spent the week recovering from its end, here God rests only on Monday, Tuesday, and the occasional...
Between elegant penance, through roots of salt, indignantly melancholy, shedding the balcony (twice). Him, rejects the stark cold, the costume of dead dawn. . Voice descended in butchers of formidable silence. Gulp spirits and sing; marrow of safety opened, nailed, generating an elegy of lovely liquid Muses. . Contours precise, performers in trifles of terrible pauses,...
w0ndringal0ud-deactivated201206 asked: This is not a question, but I love your blog. It seems we had the same idea, regarding a way to keep our poems all in one place.
A Thin Pine Table
We sat at a pine table, shallow rivers cutting the grain across, and one glass bowl with thick blue stripe around and again, we sat at a thin pine table. . And I slipped on a pine table, one——- fact about how there seem to be lots of, well, cutting across to end at the head, I slipped on a thin pine table. . But god divine on a thin pine table, sent out the blessing...
I sit, faux maple beneath, bath-white sky above, limbs locked at a much crossed impasse, of soft steel and copper. . My words lay bare in a skull of empty passions, poured out before their predetermined moments. . Where a noun would slide off the left of my tongue, now they fall out a nostril, a tear-duct, and on landing form hairline fractures I see on the edge of my phrases, ...