A journal of narrative writing.

I have painted this highway And the mulled boat-bottoms that pass over, Rounded vacancies cast in the intersection of haze and highlight Some tanager breaks the silence, And syllables of birdsong, Sun-tight and feather-happy Catch between my fingers like clippings of grass, Measured Saint Augustine spears. The notes stay when I drop my hand, sun-rimmed angles like the points of a Disassembled star. June. Peach-pits drop from our shirtsleeves To the sandpath, Paved with our toeprints like unpolished dimes.