Today is a different day, I can feel it. The breeze is more fine, somehow. And the men I'd meet. The minute. The particular air, back, on my back. It's nearly past 3. I am still here, braceleted, & wondering... when? Tomorrow? The next? Day away?

ism, thanks to hism

On behalf of anyone who is involved in the pathetic game of a weak mind, left only to feel made a fool by a truer one, I have to respond.

millions of wild forevers

for #28

million, forevers

desert skin, ocean eyes, but

Hearts can't hold time.

for #13

your wild dog ways, the

desperation thrive.

smell in mint inspiration

for #11

forever the first

the red awake of Being

entangled to death

for #3

and so you were thick

like an adult in me, blood

and pink on the floor

Ha

one day

Reading One Arm, by Tenn. Williams. "But death has never been much in the way of completion." I realized I stopped paying attention after this line; looking at the various birds of this backyard Boise, the recognizable house finch with its vermilion tinted breast, the color subtly changing faded green and the sage growing purple, wheat-yellows, the rustle of the invasive Russian Olive. The ending of this story, with the Apollo youth seeming too perfect for anyone to touch with a knife, his unclaimed body donated to the medical school, just a tender one gone...

truly lovely, this writer.