Tuesday, July 26, 2016

To the one who will never read this,
to the one who has earmuffs on
whenever I am screaming your name,
I know you've been wandering the desert
so long that everything looks like a mirage
but I am as solid as they come.
And I might not be relief
but I am at the very least, refuge.
And if ever I open my mouth
and nothing comes out
it is only because I have already given you everything,
every word I know.

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Letter From an Old Poet

 I Day two thousand  one hundred and ninety-one. Our little blue marble has made one modest revolution  around our honey-sweet sun  si...