Could it be
that a hole can grow
from the knot of a tree,
a void from where wood
& grain & rings & water
all evacuate and retreat
into some unfounded
new darkness?
Just as a burl evades
the lathe,
the hollow founders
as obligate leaves
still the silence.
a fluorescent full moon guided {us} quilted moths. gravel crunched, nails clicked. where the wall meets the sidewalk leaked the giggle of a shared secret. we've encrypted these moments like the finger
a quip - the last of the rarest jokes on earth like snowfall > April showers - befell. We shared this moment the way two people watch a performance of King Lear.
it's a hard thing, this lucid living: sitting on a donated couch in an already-sold house with someone whose grave I had just visited. "but I've been to your grave," the words unspun from tangled teet