Writer, Filmmaker, and Photographer from a small city in New England, capturing vignettes of intimacy in the everyday. Subscribe for poetry, fiction, essays, and a literary friend you can talk to.
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Between the dew turning the yard turquoise and the sweet fragrance of the wacked weeds, I hardly bothered to move today. Waiting on my brain webbing to make like snowdrift clematis. Winding from ear canal to window sill, through the bug screen to the soil kissing the siding. I avoided the land of sleep to allow myself time to consider doing nothing more than nothing.
A butterfly balloon butts against the café window, reading the faces of the angry Saturday drivers. It thinks: there is no such thing as anger, only lack of control. It thinks: a butterfly balloon cannot think, so what is happening here?
As I walk north along the pier, the lake crashes like an ocean.
The day is too nice for words. A warmth in my chest puts a hand over my pen and asks it to rest. The sun kisses my head quiet, rocks the poems to bed in a hammock hung between my ears. The voice that wants to rattle them all awake gets muffled in a shower of sheets cutting sound into ribbons, thoughts into creek water and bug-wing lullabies.
a poem
a poem
a poem
a poem
a poem
a poem
