We are reading poetry, you and I, and I am learning by rote the topography of your neck. My fingers memorizing your hidden rivulets and beautiful bones. Time stops but for the falling of snow, the muttering of the fire, the urgency of birds. Text on the button
Sun on skin, we lizard in this clearing, two cups of coffee and an orange between us. It’s something I read once, that love is sharing an orange, and so we do, popping the sections into our mouths, into the dark places between words. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Real bells sounding. A man, his protege, and the spittle of Wednesday traffic. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Tap tap tap tap. What’s your message little one? Tap tap tap tap. Are you a daughter or a son? CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
It all comes down to this he said, Curious. That it all should come down. That it, in its sprawling it-ness, could, or would ever be, felled. The whole shebang. The whole enchilada. Kaput. Perhaps he meant this: the wide world shrunk to one room where everything that matters is this man, sleeping, his…