selected past writing at 42opus
Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
And so again we're left with speculation. Luck, destiny, fortuity.
The mouth makes its sounds, curls ever so slowly, forming
into horror or love, while lightning in the sky, if you're a passenger,
cannot be described, because those moments are always
your last. It's 3 a.m. Monday morning…
11 September 2009 | poetry
You needn't be trying to comfort me,
I tell you my Dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't
With a crack like that in her head.
in a pale yellow Tupperware bowl on the way into Boston…