Death and the Symphony
I remembered you on stage in Montreal with your guitar. How could you have picked up that gun?
I remembered you on stage in Montreal with your guitar. How could you have picked up that gun?
“The sensual wetness of the sand beneath my feet is balm to my seared soul. The siren song of waves beckons.”
My blue ocean sadness. Kept from you, hidden from view. So I keep docking at the same port of hurt.
The warmth of your small body seeps through cracked exterior penetrates deep into this caked clay.
My bullet has been eroding into my spinal cord for the last ten years, the sandbar under my feet slipping away..
This isn’t about you. It isn’t about the Barbie you once belonged to, or the kid that Barbie might still belong to. It isn’t about my own kid’s Barbies…
Your love wasn’t conditional – It was trapped inside a heart afraid to beat out loud. It was off in the distance.
When I unfold the paper there’s what appears to be a bunch of feathers. As I reach for them I discover it’s a bird’s wing.
The sand is raked perfectly into lines of dried ravines. Water in the tetsubin, ready for gyokuro.