sit by your side watching worlds slide by. They appear and vanish on your skin, invisible to the eye, but I feel their passage in my chest. In my mind. I watch your eyelashes flutter, watch the rise and fall of your breasts. I press your warm hand between my cold palms. You look so peaceful, but appearances can lie. I know because to the outward eye I’m awake and alive.
“She’s dead, Mr. Spencer.” Conrad stared at the detective’s upper lip. Adriana, dead? How could she be? He’d sat with her on her balcony this morning, drinking lapsang souchong with a splash of milk and honey. She’d made him scones. He’d kissed her twice. “Mr. Spencer. Are you listening? Do you understand the gravity of…
Quadrant 24b has been giving me trouble. It is difficult to manage a ten-pound core sampler with a bent spinner head while dangling from a harness and ripple cord at a height of 5 meters in the baking hot sun.
A poem about a little girl sitting in a whicker chair, watching a parade go by from her spot in the bay window.
A poem about a childhood adventure in imagination
The hose is on
running clear into black
of garden earth.