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.. Oh, we’ve got spells. Woo him. Thrill him. Kill him. Spill him to the moon, she’ll hold him fast. Bubble-bubbled, toiled and troubled here in all this midnight mass. You only need bring a broken kite string, your sharpest … Continue reading
Crave her. Save her as a nightlight, lighthouse beacon for the sea. Hold her fast between these hanger clouds, the hush-loud sting of stars. Turn that golden knob. She’s waiting. .. For twiglets.
There’s a chai sky brewing, stewing in its own bright stir. She whirls, stretches long against a sugar cube moon and raises …………….(hands, ………………heart, ………………..hell) to tell her deepest stories, to spell herself in shards, to allow these aching leaves … Continue reading
.. , we realize (not quite soon enough) that we are made of silt, and salt. not our fault, perhaps – this being our glorious dark -est hour of burning hunger, quiet storm. that slice, that nice bright sliver of … Continue reading
.. Be -hold the sun, flush with first blush of day , an unquiet con ……….(artist) -trail of clouds, pass -ing by too soon , the dry rub spark of dark stars, this toxic oxy -mo(r)on. .. In November, we … Continue reading
…. , trying to forgive an unrepentant moon for her jagged smile. ..