If your hands come away wet Then you know you drink With passion Click on image to enlarge. Lost Lake, Oregon.
Rain stopped Forced spring out for a day. Winter is an ideal With a harsh streak of delirium.
Sometimes I feel like murdering them, squashing them under my feet, watching letters bleed out, separated from the word they are attached to. Other times, I place them in an incubator, checking in on them from time to time. Some go in a special…
The creek doesn’t have to be aware of us, but we’re always conscious of the creek.
It isn’t a question of whether words will come It’s a question of how you want words to go
Leaves in summer, full of passion, always flirt Roots in winter, compassionate, hold the dirt
“If it were not for our wrecks, the salvage yard would be empty.”
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