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

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in poetry, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Nowhere, slow

  1. ksbeth says:

    it’s all right there

    Liked by 2 people

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

    Like

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