I ate last night’s dinner for breakfast, wild mushrooms in bone broth. I sat by myself in the nook chewing, contemplating the day. It passed without report. In the middle of the night the moon made the fog look like… Read More ›
mortality
This time on earth
Where does it go, when the hair recedes—and why does it leave? And will I go like that too, without any notice but more a long, slow fade like snow thawing in a field— And are we just that then,… Read More ›
When they slide that heavy rock slab across your lids where will you sit, with what you’ve done?
And were we like those same straps they used to hold up trees, that look like slingshots tied from the trunk to the post—were we that same post for our kids, meant to just stay there in the ground long… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 