verse

Some choice words, smacked around, made to sound and pounded down, struggling back to uncertain feet, bruised-jawed, and emboldened. Fancy-fancy, and like that.

A few links for ya, a title, some starter words. Good luck going forward, pilgrim.

fog country
We are not within fog country
I explained to heavy air, out of sight
of my own arm, the thickish light so dense
with possibility.

fishers of the morning
 Across the fitted sky they pin up boats to start the morning,
And then lowering the first long nets, then pulling up the sun;
And when they’re through:
A man walks straight and silent out into the early blue.
He moves, a particle of time to pass, a finger touching to the glass
Beneath the hint of half-cut moon that haunts the pink horizon.

bindings
 That time I was nothing
but loose ends, you
were the string
entwining me, binding me, sustaining
me, from threading
straight out of
my needle

just pause
 Rhulie and Angel, and Paris Aquinas
took turns in dancing a slow, faded tango
no women attended.
Loose brothers from Broad Street
they’d been to Durango, eaten fresh fruit
pinched from side-market stands
with sugarcreased hands.