the old place
chinese elms. i never noticed them here before peeling bark, and green green leaves. remember the pond? those fragile, twisting branches that engulfed the house in shade?
chinese elms. i never noticed them here before peeling bark, and green green leaves. remember the pond? those fragile, twisting branches that engulfed the house in shade?
rolling rain-soaked hills, beyond the richmond bridge, (arch the back to swoop and gently, upright, land) to land in, loved and loving, erased by a car-horn
the tulip i cut last week’s still round and fragrant and frilly in it’s doubleness, but the rose-branch resents the lack of sun, and holds it’s buds shut, like two fists
for an hour and a half, it’s wood and skin and metal faces forgotten, we breathe through our wrists and the spaces between our bones. tied together with time we pummel desire ’til it sings
cold seeps up through floor damp soaks bones heart drums with dawn bird song rain-breath-sound