Object Permanence
in spring we come across a peeling house and fill it with pots and pans. sometimes I make noise with a wooden spoon. you fix
in spring we come across a peeling house and fill it with pots and pans. sometimes I make noise with a wooden spoon. you fix
(after 8-bitfiction) you sink your sensible feet in the dirtwhile we talk about the heatpresuming the boundaries of the courtare drawn there like sowed beds,
after Andrew Wyeth‘s Squall the piping plovers hoppedalong the time I wentbirding, cold and wet dispositions fret,slickered yellow hiding behinddunes pock-marked by rain, canvas tote bagsdampened,
balmy air sneaks its way throughthe gaps in the cable-knit,in this finicky colony housingconfused birds and the carnageof melting snow. people sharing happinesses,incredulous – it’s
last night the clock struck three, a lonely bird chirped,and I walked into the kitchen on padded feet.slid onto the floor with the jar and
all at once I hide myself,with found cravings in a coat pockethidden in autumn’s closet.a yellow leaf touched my faceand I wanted this silence:to bury