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.. there’s a very good chance she’s gonna write something. turn a phrase around on her tongue until it tastes just right. never sneeze only once. have the hiccups daily. call the sky her friend. fall in love with the … Continue reading
… We fill ourselves with ink and sighs, pull parchment from the nearest tree. Clack keys. Please: here’s my heart. Can you read it? Hold it softly. It tears. It’s salty and sometimes it swears. It’s got cracks. See the … Continue reading
… They’re going. They’re shifting sands, changing hands, altering stars. They matter. They’re smattering themselves in nothing less than always, nothing more than forever. They’re clever little waving things, winged cur rents, working theories, bright sigh -entific discoveries. Microscopic dreams. … Continue reading
… she needs words. sun -shine. rain. the moon. the stain of ink on her fingers. salty, sea-soaked toes. prose. the threat and throes of the page. the slant of the sky. the laughter burbling up like a stream. the … Continue reading
… We meter it out in heartbeats, giggles, song, tick-tock of clock and shades of calendar squares. Tears. We stare at walls, wonder what is level (tiny bubble of water, centered.) Point true north and go every which way. Loose. … Continue reading
… A wheelbarrow may be some -thing upon which much(ness) depends, but it is not my nom de plume, not that last plum you ate that was so cold. It has but one wheel, and a tendency for tipping over, … Continue reading
… perhaps, this is (definitelyprobablymaybe) the second to last (to last to last) ………………(too fast) poem i shall ever pen , she tells herself. ……………………..and laughs. .. prompted by toads.