Friday night, and
I don’t want to go home
I browse poetry at the
mall bookstore
Frank O’Hara—
inscrutable, as
a woman’s sandaled foot
hovers into my sight
below the open book.
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It's haiku time again in creative writing class
Coffee is bitter fuel that brings a sweetness, lifting my spirits. Empty hanging file folders, holding only the hope of less clut...
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How many lenses have we passed through, how many times have we bent in darkness, felt gravity's capricious hand alter our cour...
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You’re a valiant pine growing from a cleft in a rock. You are an old piano by the beach, sending your notes flying, singing with the gulls a...
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