86 Readings

January 19th

The mist’s husk

splinters slowly,


day protruding through

the dew’s ochre and leaves.   


Words don’t have sounds;

our thoughts about words do


someone said somewhere in my head

but I was busy trying to listen


to the blue

steadily stunning


all the cars and mountains

light, bright. My eyes


were closed, of course.

I was wearing my special socks,


my honeydew beanie.

Was in a field


finely attuned to dirt.

Day. Dreams.


No garden without weeds,

no weeds without gardens—  


I miss you too.




Posted 12/18/17
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