fraternal
The floor is paved with wooden planks / rough and scratched / peeling, mismatched
The floor is paved with wooden planks / rough and scratched / peeling, mismatched
September always makes me hyper-aware of change, which makes sense. It’s also really self-indulgent, but this IS a blog.
At six forty-six p.m. / they’re still laying great big chunks of granite / in the yard
I wrote most of an essay, then realized it amounted to five-hundred words on how “writing is hard.” So I scrapped it.
I’m still publishing something every Tuesday, but new poetry/prose/art will be every other week. That gives me the time I need for longer, more complex stuff.
The fishing hole looked almost too good to be true. The current would slowly carry the lure right past the submerged trunk, where hungry fish might be hiding. “Catch and release,” Brent muttered…