Daily Archives: November 8, 2018

{The Moment I Most Likely Knew}

.. You headed hard for that horizon haze, leaving me with nothing but this harlot moon, and hints of stone.   .. In November, we poem.     

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This is bigger than a bread box

… , smaller than the sky. Deeper than our darkest hour -glass wishes and sunken-sorry stars. It’s more silent than the chalk dust vanishings of our new found fears. This is celebrated eyelash flutter. This is weary-of-worry will, and all … Continue reading

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