Day Seven
In my room there is discernable weather
An empty cold and touch devoid of feeling
Loneliness no longer lacks an old weight
The universe won't quit, won't fucking wait
Pressed against me, all insistent whether
I pretend to wake or fake a longed for feeling
The heavy half-light seems to have me feeling
Always for some trick to shift a weight
Although I know the burden's mine to weather
Whether or not to wait for that old feeling.
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Day 2 Simple fingers to the string What a little thing to cultivate, unreal as it is; not to be seen or touched but felt, enduring, where so... -
Day Twenty Fantastic style designs on pottery from Hacilar. Image from Yakar 2005. The ancients believed That culture was Construed by pot... -
So, two weeks in and I'm somewhat surprised to find myself sticking at this poetry malarkey. In fact I'm enjoying it very much. To...
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