Nowhere, slow

The spent tea bag stapled at the top,

the icicles dripping on a Saturday afternoon

freed from any thought of what time it could be,

spread out like a soft cheese with hair

unwashed, snow with nowhere

to go, nothing we don’t have

we need

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: , , , , , ,

4 replies

  1. I don’t know why ‘stapled at the top’ got to me but it did. I can’t imagine why.


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