Washed

The metaphorical wellspring has run dry, and I now realize that I’ve relied too heavily on serendipity. I’m all washed up and empty. Now, no pity. It’s my own fault. Everybody knows not to over-water crops, and while talking to flowers can help them grow, you can’t yell at them. You’ll scare them to death.

Mail Poem

to Anna you send me packets of modern artifacts and I backtrack: what brought on such a racket of love as this parade of return addresses and how do you package the passion how does it stay so fresh? your actions hold so much traction I never used to like objects but through the clatter

Thimble Wit

our bones are sworn to viscera, blood, muscle, and skin, and not a thought without or within will they suffer to obey only marrow guides their way marrow our grave is also our single simple escape so together we tremble nerves in a thimble never as nimble as when we’re ready to die and when

unidentified story (pt1)

previous: [pt0] Dear stranger, To introduce myself, I’m going to tell you what I’m thinking about your note. I’m thinking that you probably aren’t an intruder. You probably didn’t sneak into my bedroom and slip that tiny note under my pillow. You probably would have woken me, as I’m a very light sleeper, and anyway