Recall through the face at the door

that saturday morning one solid blank

grey window, scrubbed slab

beyond, several feet and more

laid the catapult, a pointed edge

from a distant acre fed, wind-side.

The concentric pattern in velvet

curtain brushed my hand as I reached

to turn and swing, oiled lock routine

the knives of cold the comfort

between the welcome and rain

rutted yard yawns closed, beyond.


◄ Cold

Morning Mass ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sun 28th Feb 2016 19:36

This is not easy reading once through; but given the courtesy of a reread, or even two, the word associations become very intriguing indeed. I, also, enjoy this.

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Greg Freeman

Sat 27th Feb 2016 11:22

I enjoyed this very much, David. Concise, but contains so much.

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