| Friday Flash Fiction |
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Say it like a purr
Cat leaps on table Only sound your voice Leaves rush in rain slide Some see drain blocked by thick layers Lovers smile at light dancing on gold Black and yellow busy buzz Quieter each summer season Sting comes when honey dries up To live in the third person and write in the first
Wait for objectivity to usher me out of all cloaks Beyond both thought and flesh transcendentally Nowhere May this not be the last naïve spontaneity left In the sad twisted disgrace of a soul Who waited too long For the delivery of the early promise Of uncomprehending adults Who believed wrongly both That I would grow up to see like them And that I would like it But I will make no accommodation Here inside Where what’s left of the truth lives—no, I will not come across. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. Archives
November 2019
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