Poem.
montreal writes
Josh wants nothing to do with my idea of digging up half the back lawn.
Tendrils of purple vine, voices floating on temperate air—Findlay park, empty in the cold morning dew, was now brimming in the warm embrace of midday.
Poem.
Siobhan already made two appearances in the parlour room to pick up the extension that morning.
From the never-ending, dry landscape rose twenty trees in my field of vision.
Poem
It had been a favourite topic of discussion at dinner parties throughout the years.
The last time I struck a match, I lit the sky on fire. Up, up, up galloped the pillows of smoke, stacked on top of each other like scorched marshmallows.
Poems
