the hour we lost.
It was April,
and the hundred-year-old trees were being born for the first time again.
like I had control over time,
although of course I was only doing what I was told, like everyone else.
i once told a boy
that i searched for my own castle,
where the skies were sewn
from only the warmest of fabrics.
Walking into my backyard,
A thin strand of spider silk tangles my legs
With a quiet snap,
Its frustrated author glares
From a high corner nearby.
In late June, when my stone birdbath developed a
deep crack, I recycled it into a fairy garden.
These winter nights know not your gentle touch,
Your fingers running wild against your skin.
My darling, this I ask (think it not much:)
To be your partner, privy to your sin.
Onion Never buy a single onion if you live alone. For unless you are greatly skilled in the art of onion management, at some point you will end up with less than half an onion on a little plate on the middle shelf of a nearly-empty fridge, it’s pitiful, withered, stem looking like the sliced-off
I’ve started to keep a Food and Feelings Journal,
but it just ends up sounding like the lamest brand of forced narrative.
Like Chicken Soup for the Mystically Reanimated Soul,
or that recurring dream I have where I’m the host of
a low-budget, zombie-themed daytime talk show,
The cigar is chewed to nothing,
there’s earwigs on the brie,
but the dumpster’s flowin’ over
and there’s plenty here for free.