Latent in the lines
of your hands, all that you clutch
falls through your fingers.
Once you’ve had that taste
(the bite that resists
slightly before relenting
the sound of its crunch
long gone by the time
juice runs down your chin)
and once it’s gone,
but a pale stain on one cheek,
eating seems a chore.
When you’re a young writer, you just want someone to look at you and say, She’s a poet. It feels like being called a mermaid or a griffin or something. — Paris Review - The Art of Memoir No. 1, Mary Karr (via leopoldgursky)
It was a day for loving,
where the sun apologized
for not leaving a note
and you know you’ll take it back
because you can absolve
someone for leaving in December,
but being alone in May
The land has been sold.
An Asian Pear cut down at the knees
in the name of a patio.
When will the birds stop singing
unable to carry on without the tongues
of their mother?
do you know where
your sleeping pills are?
Do you know
why the moon can’t come
If it were up to me,
I’d’ve had a newer, brighter moon
in the sky ages ago.
Complacency grows like barnacles
where the tide doesn’t look,
but still expects to see.
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I want all my secrets back — six word story (via guy)
(Source: velvet-plats, via 90thstreetjournal)