ginger tea
the quietest evening in recent memory. you can hear the lightbulbs, like little campfires you weren’t prepared for this, and now you wonder if anyone will notice
the quietest evening in recent memory. you can hear the lightbulbs, like little campfires you weren’t prepared for this, and now you wonder if anyone will notice
i woke up late and haven’t played the flute dreams of familiar people in un- familiar situations stole the morning i straighten my spine and go on
a warm spring night in town–the bare-midriffed college girls practice their english lessons on deaf and single-minded handlers outside the theater. the smirking crescent moon has seen it all before
sometimes you want to wear your underwear to bed [when the train passes, baying low, about a mile to the west] like a memory of hands it’s not a weakness. it’s faith
flimsy sunglasses balancing on a cracked gourd a wristwatch wrapping the stub of a broomhandle day after day, who is it that brings me tea? a bathrobe, worn by a scarecrow