All these pages peppered
black with words,
trite poems and
weathered love letters,
strung instruments and
rosined draw,
only to say the dead
stay dead, and
all this lonesome
lives alone.
Thursday, December 20, 2018
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simmer
The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk ...
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The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shif...
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There’s not much to do once the sinking sets in, once you feel the collapse throughout the collateral, the drag of the earth’s core gripping...
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The words circle, the words spin, the words become and begin. There’s really no excuse. Just padding out the package, just filling out the f...
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