if there’s no ink in autumn
a mouthful of berries to bed
the wrong way a rope
around both legs
if there’s no ink in autumn
a mouthful of berries to bed
the wrong way a rope
around both legs
Sunday afternoon while light won’t stop streaming past the sudden silence of unbroken bare trees and what apologies to make while the ink dries and the thinking machines reset in the year of our lady redacted
all day I thought I was some other day the ink seeped out starting with what in your chest before you can fly 1,000 years
snow starts
too much
ink in the pen
easter I fill a pen with green ink
first smile of the year my fingers stained with blue ink
a word I didn’t expect a drop of ink uncurls in the water