Lost in the light
of a laundry
room,
clean
air
invites me
into morning.
I sit
and hear the sounds
of whirling,
washing
and with it
I am
at peace.
We call it Quicksand Street, despite what the road signs say. Where the sidewalks should be, two long columns of dirt reside, that kick up dust in the summertime. In the spring, when the rain really ... [+]
We pull off at the side of the highway in Somewhere, Maine looking to sing to the snails. There's a deep shoulder of gravel here, so we assume it to be a parking lot. The sky and the water and the ... [+]
My very dear Claire,
I already know so much about you, and yet I have never actually seen you. For six months now, I have been passing you, sensing you, hearing you, closing my eyes when I
...
[+]
