The surface was smooth then as it is now and my thumb finds the hollow of the shell my grandfather saw the day I held it up to his window.
The surface was smooth then as it is now and my thumb finds the hollow of the shell my grandfather saw the day I held it up to his window.
Crossing campus, I skim my arm along the pit-high hedge, just touching the new growth. “I do that sometimes,” says a man overtaking.
I am so hungry, I am a bone gnawed by God. There is bread enough to feed the multitudes and seven baskets of broken promises left over.
Turning off
the generator
the sound of rain
…
Turning off
the flashlight
the summer stars
…
Turning off
my mind: silence
and bird song
rustling
poplars
brushing
sunlight
a white
butterfly’s
wings
A bluebird warbles in the darkness. Eyelids heavy with hours of missing sleep, I squint into the spreading stain of light.
The tansy heads beside the porch have grown eyes: clear beads at the center of each dense sun. A faint haze of rain thickens into pelt.
Gray and misty. A common yellowthroat keeps caroling back to a Carolina wren, until I have trouble remembering which “witchedy” is which.
Come hummingbird and bring some glitter to this damp gray morning, buzz around the bergamot, pizzazz at the beebalm’s one bedraggled bloom.
Soapwort, self-heal, mullein, Rudbeckia, butterfly weed: my garden exemplifies the messiness of any organization dominated by volunteers.
The misty sunrise puts me in a Hallmark mood: Roses are brown,/ violets, long dead./ This coffee is bitter/ and goes straight to my head.
The jesters’ caps on the topheading garlic have begun to split, revealing dense clusters of miniature selves. A raven’s mechanical laughter.
black blob as fat as my thumbnail was hiding in the potato
Fiona Robyn (asmallstone)
She wears her sunglasses like a tiara.
Rhinestones flare / flair in her hair.
Just the fact
of a floating cloud
or a crow.
Just that cloud or crow…
And just me, breathing.
The muscle of tock makes time, ticks off its dooms, each second a collapsed cathedral in a sack.
