Quiet, few and far
between them
minutes or miles
houses or hours
stretch themselves
luxuriously
from horizon to clock face
and back again
miles or minutes
something is ticking and
making a soft whirring sound
as it slowly goes by
Quiet, few and far
between them
minutes or miles
houses or hours
stretch themselves
luxuriously
from horizon to clock face
and back again
miles or minutes
something is ticking and
making a soft whirring sound
as it slowly goes by
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
