This cold summer, that started with such promise, is ripe with metaphors; I reach out my open hand and they fall into my palm. The possums Have given up waiting For the tomatoes to ripen And are just eating them: Green and bitter, but still tomatoes. I can’t speak to your silence. March 2021
Kinked in broad daylight
I’m developing a kink for Thin old men in grey cardigans Who lean on country fences And watch the wind. Not the gaunt of ill mind or waning body. Not the narrow of a too-small mouth and a too-big religion. But the shape of someone easily distracted By words, or birds, or maps, or pebbles.… Continue reading Kinked in broad daylight
Sometimes I think
Armistice Day 1991
You called the shots ...
I met three people who did not cry...
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