pickled rinse loaf

join a doorbag!

vacillate between mild eyes 
and the obsolete 

Sifting past sand 
fingers twisting out soft brown hair 

he covered his eyes with such grief. 
Frying eggs, scrubbing laundry, walking ferrets.

polarity, and inspection gone wrong. 
disconcerted in the art he was trained. 

Sometimes, i wanna run
i picture smooth pastures 
flowered youth;
speckled eggs and fascination. 

i live in a hollow hillside. 
down in the river 
There's really no river,

besides the moon pill that is. 
my feet got sticky and ran away last night.

Reviews

[Mauricio Montoya]

I like how this comes together, great job nice work.

[Lydia Blackwell]

you are brilliant! I love this poem. It has so many different feelings wrapped up into it and some great imagery:)