Anxiety, as mineral

We dine on fresh emotion with each day a fork, red salad plates of grief or joy then rest on beds of flashing opal-fear a docile pillow lost upon a plain too late, too sure, to realize comfort won sweet hours lost avoiding stroboscopes by hoarding little stones in mattresses by lording over rooms gone …

Advertisements

The Songs We Sing

Sometime in the middle of May, in the blinking daylight hours between rolling fog and thunderstorms, the buildings along Lincoln Avenue inhale. The restaurant workers in their white aprons have thrown open the large, floor-to-ceiling windows that line the fronts of their buildings. You have to fight against the draw of their breath as you walk by them, and the …