Lynn
2020-04-29 12:56 am
it's my turn to put away the dishes it's the same knife i use to cut strawberries in the mornings the sucrose covers my hands. do you think blood is the same kind of sticky? will it come off with soap and water and elbow grease? will it even matter?
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Lynn
2020-04-26 07:53 pm
I am a infinite work in progress. Who I was yesterday is not who I am now is not who I will be tomorrow. However long it takes me to answer, the clock keeps ticking. The past increases, the future recedes. I'm not me, I'm a traveler. Whatever I do, wherever I go, it will pass. When whenever ends, finally I will know rest. Peace.
Gord
2020-04-21 07:02 am
On and on, Although my hands, they shake, Play with plants, on steaks, How am I to find my place? How am I to file down pane, File down pain, or file alone again? My violin is made from wood and string, My heart is filled from blood for simple things, Like dimples and rings, Like a simpleton's dreams.
Lynn
2020-04-07 10:57 am
the bedsheets, striped linen, rumpled, unkept the jar of half-full change on the nightstand the dollar store notebook full of dated dreams the bible, still lying in the nonfiction section of the bookshelf the lavender curtains, billowing in the cool spring air— I forgot to close the window. the cat meanders in after his nap in the blue blanket still draped over the armchair, he stretches big, jumps to the east windowsill, and tracks a cardinal, pupils blown wide. parting is such sweet sorrow. (2.2.188)
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