Flat boxes of fiveses and sixeses minuteses of sleep wrapped with gray burlap readies to tear bound by loopy stringses
We stare at the lines, divided, you and I stark and misguided, worn dull by day’s exhausted breath we move on by hope of certain rest; by day and by step, with faith our bequest and by trust, and what it will cost us.
Lilac leaves are the surest sign that spring has stopped teasing. Although the flowers rarely last more than a week here, the leaves possess their own silky beauty. I’ve photographed them many times over the years, and they always draw me back for more.
You line up your crayons according to the shades of the sky. Red and orange, of course, but before them, black and gray. You’ve worn those colors down to smudges of wax on the tablecloth. Is that what you see, more darkness than light? You won’t say. There are others, of course, but the paperContinue reading “Twenty-two crayons”
They call me Balazar. I do not know why. I am old. Irrefutably old. And oh, how the years have poured through me. I have plucked the flesh of the immortals, scarred the tongues of those who speak my name, plundered their bones. I have wept for the stains I leave upon their torn breasts,Continue reading “Balazar”