I have a sleeping hand-
I can reach into time
make people spill
through an open door
and smile-each wanting
an embrace as welcome.
Taking turns, like
planes, to speedily-express
themselves to me.
and my body gives forth
something that busts
out of my chest.
and I am feeling like the
single, (most) adorable,
(as I roll into a
deeper groove
and ignore my
bruised rib.)
person I was.
Tickle your toes. . .
-
two squinting painted eyes looking solemn on a leathery face. this knight of the golden age has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat atop his slicked... -
to have sticky pins for fingertips and ballpoint pens for thumbs. then I could fascinate myself to you, and write away doldrums.
-
our silence comes easy and there is much to it the commingling of our fingers and the swapping of palm oils and the nimble saltation of ...
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July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...
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July 9th i feel like running again. it's either that or swimming in a valley of tears. July 10th you couldn't tell by looking at us,...
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Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but... -
husband and I trek a mile for ice cream just for the creamy banana, crunchy pecans, and chunks of thumb-sized chocolate. shoes flipping and...
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Rain, dearest friend. You know just when to pound on my head. I know there is more to this world, than what I have given from inside myself....
Poets United Contributor
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