He would sit there, with his tight frown, his pent-up bowels, his shoulders narrow again like a boy’s, his paper-thin skin shaking and he’d wait.
Would you beat Old Franky like a rented mule rather than just let Old Franky be Old Franky?
As a kid, I’d imagine green florets budding out from under the soft and torn fingernails...
...the pattern of the grain flows with divergent needs, some cells expanding slightly, others contracting.
As I got closer to the door, I thought less of the thing on the other side and more about the flow of light – the way it cascades like water in undulous, radiative motion. The way it comes, brilliant, from a source, and spreads like the rays of the Sun King’s crest – a halo of crespuscular rays.
The nights around here are like good poetry. The phrases are brief and sparkling – never lengthier than the stretch of my headlights through the unwinding roads.
I’m writing in black ink today, which is psychologically more daunting than blue.
Leaves 