The dew rushes in, then the sun. Just follow the amounts beside each ingredient. It’s all there in the recipe.
. . . at night when all the birds are still photos . . .
As if by dream, I end up over there, in a world not yet written, but soon.
The clouds were flat paper until it began to rain books.
I’m at the meat market. Takes the guy 10 minutes to hand me my Whiskey Sour.
I wander off. I go a-wandering. I end up across the room wondering what kept me.
Morning coffee needs me. How can I let it down?
Each day some of us,
many of us, dare
the world to carry on.
Can any of you truly
not see the world
daring us back?
“I love you more than the dog, okay?” I say to my husband while winking at the dog.
“I’m well done,” I say.
“I’m rare,” he says.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with our egos,” I conclude laughing.