We drink and kick under the plaza’s awnings. Inside, the spice rack spills only warm shade.
Category: Versicle
Per cola et commata
I discovered the work on my mother’s devotional shelf when I visited my parents over Christmas. One page I randomly turned to spoke to me in my discouragement about my writing. The discouragement felt vaguely productive. It had the feel of a winter field with the hoe and the scythe stored somewhere in the shed. It felt like a Twachtman painting, or at least of the one I enjoy at the Phillips. It’s as if Twachtman in all that snow couldn’t farm; all he could do was paint.
Here
pond of angels effervescing through stone, pale sediment Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.
Day
my phone got old the peace the day Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.
Near
far………………….near near…..far . high…..near far……..low . near…..low high…..far . far……………………..near near…..far Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.
Of
pond of angels effervescing past stone & sediment Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.
And
stone under foot lake under stone Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.
As
The fish, the altar of fish Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.
Or
a fish …on a rock Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.
Foam
……foam, from breakers ………>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.blown Lax prompted this and other poem-like things.