the moss is cool against my fingersmy back dampthe sky has lost its blue at my feet, the remnants of decadesrusted cans, a rotten shoei make a bed of copper leavesand let the treeswash my hair with their dew an unseen squirrel chitterson a far away branchbut i don’t want toleave too soon i feel
Scattered across my arms like constellations in the skyA kaleidoscope of butterflies,Wings painted in silky smooth inkEach with its own unique design,Its own enchanting name.But each with the same purpose:To keep me from harm Two instruments sit in front of me,One that draws in crimsonAnd the other in ebony ash,One with a dangerous edgeAnd one
This story takes place in a quiet town. It has a downtown that is the centre of almost all the commercial activities, but a considerable rural area has remained over time. In a yard, an old but decent dwelling prolongs its existence. Inside this dwelling, two sofas decorate an empty living room with a table
I am sitting by the oceanAnd I’m thinking of youof inky wishing stones and straw hatsFloating on the surfaceConsumed by viscous memories slipping my mind I am watching the loonsThey call for you stillBaying in the smoky portsEach methodical note rippling away forever in hopes to reach you I am in my roomA hope chest
Where I am fromit’s a late August morningfresh eggs and Canadian baconit’s my brother’s old flannelcowboy bootsand work clothesit’s the tender sun on a dusty truck dashboardwith sleep still in our eyesit’s John Denver on the radio Where I am fromit’s a late August afternoondriver seat pushed all the way forwardpink boots barely touching the
Stuart doesn’t want to leave, but he doesn’t want to stay either. He gazes around him – passengers coming and going, creating a turbulence that sweeps him to the side, paralyzed, drowning. A confusion of swirling colors, pastel sandals and navy-blue winter jackets, giving ambiguous clues about people’s destinations. Stuart’s anxiety about what’s coming
Zoey lifted the bicycle from the curb where she had taken a spill startled by the military jeep so close to her rounding the corner. Cold steel pressed against her forehead, her eyes traveling up the barrel to a finger on the trigger. Her in-laws’ housekeeper, Carmelita, dashed into the street screaming at
I can see her,everlasting ripples along glass.The river is carrying her through the earlymorning light —a linen sheet soaked with sweat.Chemtrails overhead, silky seaweed below.Sadistic figures crossing the creaking bridge,cursingan embodiment of monogamy — of loyalty.A supercut of innocence within one frame.Did you see in between the valley of her wing?A streak of mud, of
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