Stealing time. Stealing it and hiding it in a perfect hiding place. Buried in a perfect dirt hole. Tell you how I miss, tell you how I miss my objects, tell you how I miss my dirty objects. This is like a gaping rawness in my heart. This is like a virgining of the flowers. This is like rotting. Don’t want that habit. Objecting to the purity.
Tag Archives: hole
Reading today about a Stone Coast MFA and a Prose Poetry Conference #2 in Walpole, but it’s August 3-5 and that’s Sam’s birthday, plus $650. Still—I want to go. But really I am flailing, floundering, utterly without direction—just feel a hole inside.
Hello hole who are you I mean how are you? Drastic, raggedy, misused? Absolutely.
november 2
Appropriately, raining. Wet leaves scattered everywhere. Sad place in my solar plexus, deep hole of mourning. Or rather, not so deep, shallow and sheltered. Impressionable as a child.