poem thirty eight.

my brain is bursting like a drop of water dripping affecting everything but only a little it’s insignificant after a while but nothing is safe from a poetic mind

poem thirty seven.

she has an array of dying potted plants in the kitchen i presume they are kept around for their sentimentality rather than their looks they are wilted brittle don’t touch them you might break a...

poem thirty six.

my view out the 3 series window the desert gallops to mountains peppered with plants interrupted by truck-lane semis grooves running with us each a racetrack for ants how big the world seems from there i imagine my view extending to the blue and white swirl with angry...