696.
If I might walk then
Sometimes tentatively, see,
Your eggshells beneath.
696.
If I might walk then
Sometimes tentatively, see,
Your eggshells beneath.
695.
Everyone’s living
In dramas we did not make.
I choose the blank page.
693.
Ostensibly, I
Am walking my dog, but my
Dog is walking me.
692.
January fog.
A canine is constantly
Pacing long-lawn frost.
691.
Louis Felipe,
Merlot Lot 18, I drank
The Wines of Chile.
690.
Even the muddiest
Up-dug, bramble-bogged garden
Is made pure by frost.
689.
Sunsets never set;
It’s just perspective. Sunrise,
You are just the same.
688.
Supermarket queue;
My two is still not your two.
Endless ego spills.
687.
You are the one page
In the one great book I wish
I had co-written.
686.
We end beginnings,
And start with women singing.
Suddenly, brimming.