pixie cup lichens

watching where i step

never over the moon

my poor little eyestalk

distant gunshots

the new tattoo
has turned scaly

Of all doomed friendships,

none is more tragic than that between a compulsive blurter and an obsessive brooder.

I was always a party of one.

I’d come in, sit down, and make myself uncomfortable.

winter fog

bare branches turn
green again

The sky of my childhood

was full of places to climb and sit.