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Oh, but she’s a storm. The sky’s got a new slant, curl of cloud and scattered song. The syllables of her name are fleeting, sleeting, bleeding ink and drinking in the stone -washed bruises of another dawn. .. Prompted … Continue reading
she dreams in couplets, breathes in metered feet. she snores to the beat of words that treat themselves to feathered phrase and counting sheep. Prompted by Poetic Asides.
… across this whispered breeze treble-trembled soft, and spit-shined fine. form my syllables from songs of sky and moon and sea; see how they define me. …
.. there’s art on her way into the city. also, an ex -pletive or two. she likes to count the letter Zs. see how many she can catch before the buildings scrape the sky. there’s a guy on the last … Continue reading
.. This poem is a live wire, a woven liar, a vowed lyre with a broken string. It’s a filament of sigh and song, a quiet longing sizzling across the miles. It’s a caffeine-keyed up smile, clacked black against … Continue reading