Once, I peeled back a peekaboo page, thinking to find what lay beneath- some lines writ in a flowing hand that only I would understand. But that leaf, so soft and supple, had done its unkind blot, and what was inked so deeply had faded from my thought. A litmus for lost love.
In the switched-off kitchen I peered through drapes of grey lace, transfixed at the sight: a mirror hall of backyard infinities, benighted in a mute of blue. The straight rise of chimney smokes seeping secrets into heaven.
Garbed in pastels and duns I went, though there were whims of crimson, and blue ebullience. And I was always just around the corner, safe in softness, empty of the passings by. On a day, I thought to write lines with hooks and sinkers. A thing to underlie, a thing to fill this tired camouflage.
There were phone books as thick as a board I never believed that showy strongmen could rip one in two In those days we were all laid bare ~our addresses~ ~our numbers~ It took no temerity to look us up to call us We had to pay for privacy Now we pay detectives to find... Continue Reading →
Karla had just turned 42, three nights after Christmas. At a brisk pace, she hurried back home from the corner store in the cold dark dribbling rain. Up the six steps of cracked concrete, she turned her bent key to the apartment lobby. Still dripping, she heard the same old squeal of her very own... Continue Reading →
The sleeper's in want of a whirring fan to mitigate the noises of the settling night. To knit a womb of warm and snowy static that gloves, in syllables, ~We are on guard~ ~We will see to care~
I live in the worldof whistle and hum…those intimatesthat clear the blank snow from pathways.That conjure up demented dance,and keep at bay the deathly trance.