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Tag Archives: jars of clay
.. that just won’t budge, or swim, or take a decent bath. it’s stained in both strained peas and song, the quiet longing of a scrib -bled cloud. it leaks out loud, of ink and salt and ‘not my fault’ … Continue reading
Fisherman’s House at Varengeville, by Monet. . It’s loud, this salt. This briny ribbon breeze blown in, tinged with turquoise and pastel time. She’s shaped a world of quiet seafoam clay, steeped the day in parchment sky and silence. Come. … Continue reading