your
letter sits
like a bomb
hidden in a drawer
I can hear it ticking
no matter how far I walk
which is strange when you consider it
How many weeks have passed? How many months?
There is no going back. Can’t you still see
irrevocable words written in the smoking air the bomb already
exploded
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 Poetry Practice
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
