I've been known to push smoke up two hills, a place where rattling bone is set still and there isn't a breeze for six miles on all four sides of me. It seems a thundering summer this year, much more than the last one, and to live so close to a swollen creek - I know it makes you sigh. I've lost count of our days and my weightlessness has tipped the ( Read more... )

I'm sawtooth and mend from works of water. a passing night or two, or maybe even three can appear a blank page. pushing smoke and nail bite, spit and whisking it aside. every cough a brushstroke backwards. I'm burning threads and more than likely bringing out my own dead. this carton is my pinto. everytime - I turn my hands 'round from a dirtpile ( Read more... )

treesplit your lightning touch. fingers paint a brushfire. I can't sit still for nothin' when your eyes wander through my wheatfield body. coughing sugarcane to break silence. we're growing tall grass, but walking slow between. I used to reach for thin air, but recently found a hand with actual working fingers to squeeze back and guide me safely. ( Read more... )

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