A journal of narrative writing.
Under a Spell

I have a theory that what Has spared us includes Anything but momentum And refuse to understand Proof that we were here The rain’s applause Settling among eyebrows The pocket-door thudding Moored in the corn, ashes Overhead from its track For light we have ships Dog’s feet on a tiled floor The dust is not luminous This winter our winter I am thankful, with you Was not winter just Pressing a worn block As straight rows of trees Day creaking, a knife Not a forest, there plates Settling into cupboards Was a silvered moment Animals unwrapping With news of evening The room’s buzz booming The sun a vegetable face Occurring in all directions Wings thick with atoms Shining parsnip, you