Mud

We drink and kick under the plaza’s awnings. Inside, the spice rack spills only warm shade.

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Categorized as 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.