Renée
Ashley
| Wine
Not Water Fish Not Frogs Everything in the garden of the world. The small cup of her. Gratitude and those birds pulling down the sky. What weighs most on a god’s scale -- other than a god? My mother told me her first father killed her other father. I found this in a note, it’s my writing – she did not tell me how. Or I’ve forgotten again. From here all I can see is roofs but I can hear the sea. Hear birds in the inlet three doors down but the sky seems stable. They appear to do no harm. The question can’t be: Who will know when she’s gone? It’s frogs and fishes. It’s atumble, askew, atip in the midden. I’ve learned not to find truth in a world. I’m trying to go on. A Wind Is Like So Many Arrows A House Like So Many Some Kind Of Doors It’s more complicated than that. Metaphor or not it’s this one body breaking up sends the mind’s bear scrambling in the pit. Self is a rugged low-down thing, time’s loaded. Poor mind. Poor bear. Poorest hour of end: the winds are up, foreclosures. Every place you look eyesore and bellyflop, the single imperfect discourse of an unfinished world. >>>Patrick McManus
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