Time is a Flower

┬áThere are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before. – Willa Cather there is no backward or forward there is only closing and opening. there are no finite lines: only circles, curling curves that balloon and burst continually shedding from the … Continue reading Time is a Flower

Morning Blind

my ice pick slips. i skid into the world of the open eyes: the sheets in ridged peaks, stinging with refracted snow or, satin. they seemed Himalayan when i trekked in the night, dizzy with altitude and aptitude. did I tumble so far? is my body this soft? does the ground truly resist with such … Continue reading Morning Blind