No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. It's Just One Planet. But There Are Many Stories.
Three decades later, it's all askew: everything your family owned given away after your mother passed. The gray carpet with foot tracks Worn into it, replaced by hardwood with gaps between the planks.
I come down to breakfast at 6 a.m. You stand in your blue terry cloth robe, cinched at the waist holding a cup of green tea in hands that are freckled, slender fingers around the cup. You hair falls on your shoulders, curling perfectly at the ends like those commercials for Clairol shampoo.
A Neighbor Upstairs
James speaks to me About the locks, or the holes in the steps. That is as much as we know. Both of us walk through our days arranging Objects, or cleaning,
All day long bandits and schoolboys floated there, just above the ground...
as Ogo was just a simple cat after all but since then he never could forget these eyes staring straight at him like from the other side of life
The love of reading is an infinite pursuit.