That first night you turned your back and my arm fell off in bed, we were made statues then like brittle, precious things put away for safe-keeping, hard to move.
Theodore Roethke
When the sun came through my window
The backs of the butterfly wings caught fire and it was a deep-blooded copper glow when the sun came through my window, the backs, and it has come to represent so much more, the stained glass pane my mom and… Read More ›
Implied rooms
There is no part of me I can leave without seeing myself still, as I get smaller on the shore. I move about my space wondering at the edges as a toddler fans the border, at what keeps us inside. And… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 