After Sylvia Plath The bushes are laden, draw my blood with their thorns. To find sweetness or at least some nourishment, Find sweetness before
…and we each took a pear and ate, and were grateful —Jane Kenyon The first load’s already washing, a suitcase-full, its swish-bump, swish-bump
I woke up today the age of my childhood friend’s dad when he was mid-divorce, buying a speedboat and making crazy money in the
When rot is found inside the softness of someone I love, I only think of making trades. As if cancer must exist somewhere,