| ringing_morning | ||
| knot meat |
the phone rang, not once, a monolithic calling but three times, seven times tomorrow's infant bawling. he kissed her sleeping above the brow beyond the learning eyes that held tight to past memories but still allowed surprise. what armies marched towards him within and without? what blind like fire in him would not heed her beseiged shouts? what's known between two lovers in the bed's liminal hold is a form that at points bleeds into the usual stories told the regular distribution of sorrows and delights is hidden because it's close to us because it seeks us with its sight. |
050701 |