#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
A career in vestige management. A dream job back—engineering shifts in salience. I’m so far
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
It’s as if we’ve just been turned… in order to learn that the beetle we’ve caught and are now devouring is our elder brother
A merchant is probing for us with his chintz curtain effect. *
The very flatness of portraits makes for nostalgia in the connoisseur. Here’s the latest
If sadness is akin to patience, we’re back! Pattern recognition was our first response
The idea that they were reenacting something which had been staged in the first place bothered her. If she wanted to go on, she’d need to ignore this limp chronology. She assumed he was...
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”