Orbs of air, like weightless quicksilver, slide from my nose as I roll to my back.
... Death has begun to grip even me with its own arms, its own skeletal wrists bejeweled with anger and contempt.
from the collection of: d. heidel I like coffee cups. The woman (rest her soul) who used to live here collected salt and pepper shakers. We walked into the house on the first day that it was ours – empty,... Continue Reading →
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.
Moving from where we're at, always to where we're going, and never really returning to anywhere we've been before.
Leaves 