Strata
I lay a palm on a wall of quartzite, red, unhewn and beckoning my lips to count the strata, number each compression from heel to nail, down below the rooted…
Month: November 2019
Mine Eyes
Sing forth the treasons, the seasons have been sung long before revolting – D minored the winter, G majored the spring… Beh, the seasons never heard these grovelling breaths, but…
On Stillness and Turbulence
At the still axis of revolution, about which our tortures churn, the pure and toddler self remains, present and young, uncoiled, unlearned. Such that a top, spinning, poised gyroscopic on…
Plainsong #2 – a pastoral
Herefords lying down, asses to the wind – this bodes of rain. Cloud gray and anvil, clobber shot and some ways off, a cliff falls precipitous. There’s manure in the…
Sweet and Bitter Greens 