walk button
it used to be, days like this, i’d go around shirtless or nearly so, with cutoff sleeves sporting my greyhound tattoo, in love with my friendliness ready for anything. clueless
it used to be, days like this, i’d go around shirtless or nearly so, with cutoff sleeves sporting my greyhound tattoo, in love with my friendliness ready for anything. clueless
if not my mother’s uncle, and his oxygen-bottle nor robert creeley’s failing breath then maybe your voice, hollering above me, old crow and the jasmine perfuming the gate
hot water in a pint glass. piles of laundry melodies and vocables half-read books of poems. pop’s old mustard sweater. lingering doubt
one turns to one who is not there, and whispers “watch.” to which no one replies “i’m waiting.” then one imperceptibly prepares to sing. “now, listen.”
with spring unfolds the drama of the nasalrealm: the first-kiss-swoon of jasmine, the sweet domestic bliss of fresh-mowed grass, the pollen’s filing-for-divorce