Every time he leaves, I hear his death. An original poem.
poetry
The Dream of Now
"You carry day out of the dark, like a flame."
Twenty-Seven
Looking for myself again and also trying to lose her
Sedimentary
Red and cream rock crumbles in my hand. It asks me: stone or sand? but it doesn't demand.
early morning in the wash
where the road runs out the depth of choosing begins
Tara K. Shepersky 