diaric, poetry

I’ll quote myself this time

the soundtrack to my waking was j’ai été au bal
my night viewing is a nightingale luring a fox.

this afternoon, the historian referred to the wantons as rams in spring.
this afternoon of the phlebotomist’s atrocities.
blaming a baby for your carelessness. how dare you.
“her veins are too tiny”; you didn’t even give her bandages. how dare you.
you gave up halfway. on each arm!

stories in my stack: the moors, wives & children, cassettes of a growing voice
there’s an offer on the table.

when invitations are for the giving and the taking.

there are clues and you cannot hide them.

Photo by Shubham Dhage on Unsplash