The birds inside the airport
Flying at the windows, trapped,
Starving for sky.
The ruined marriage,
Stained and crumpled, shoved
To the darkness at the back
Of the drawer you won’t open
Because there are all those sharp edges.
The way that every year
It’s the same dreary gray rain
That cracks open the world
Till it blossoms.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
