Monday, November 25, 2019

Faint but legible

a life, a story splayed upon hard surface.  I think of the hard surface of raw buttercup squash and a knife as its equal.  I think of a fountain pen etching into fine rag paper.  I think; I walk; I cook.  I write.

1 comment:

  1. Can you imagine how the trumpets sound
    illicit in their transport,
    a shaken whisper of a train
    too late to make a difference?