for too many good reasons
money melted itself in my pockets
and flowed easily, downhill,
Away
leaving the faintest scrim of gold
on all the rebuilt walls
of my secret home
with its fine and latchable door
worth any price
for too many good reasons
money melted itself in my pockets
and flowed easily, downhill,
Away
leaving the faintest scrim of gold
on all the rebuilt walls
of my secret home
with its fine and latchable door
worth any price
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
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