patina sending tendrils
toward the earth
Month: July 2017
Do the inhabitants of the past ever tire
of our clueless questions and our rapacious gaze?
What is it that we are missing
between footfalls, in a caught breath? What tic or tick of rhetoric makes the ground so unsolid wherever we are told we must mind the gap?
Christmas in July
the half-dozen hues
of dead needles
cloudy Sabbath
all eyes are on the bright
heirloom tomatoes
