Finding the box is empty,
the lip chapped, cracked,
one whistle away from
a train. Thread the needle,
quick, a sling, a patch for
the wound-- the cut of afterthought.
I can rest now.
No longer lost at sea,
he's really dead.
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"Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake." -Jean Rhys
Inspirations
- fear
- what I thought I heard
- between asleep and awake
- a honey bee
road trips
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2008
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April
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- What I read between the lines
- this is foreign ground
- you always wanted the truth
- Danger doesn't have to be a bomb
- my walk with Thee
- finale
- honesty
- the pattern of patience
- This was not my plan
- To dance in God's breath
- Marriage is like a paper tiger.
- be reckless about love
- clandestine
- against flesh and blood or, a true handmaid's tale
- Things we lost in the fire
- like a faith child
- doloroso palabra
- Blessed are they that mourn
- in which I confess a fantasy
- I'm so afraid I will spill the beans
- desgarrar
- Proposing to God
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April
(22)
2 comments:
Ah--this is lovely but made a bit awkward by your using the plural pronoun in the end when it's really a "he" you need there, no? Or, couldn't you just eliminate the pronoun altogether?
What I meant was, you could say, "No longer lost at sea / but really dead."
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