My Thistled Thoughts
Poetry // Prose // Personal Passages
“… every flower seems to burn by itself, softly, purely in the misty beds; and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses!”
— Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
Latest from the Blog
Prose-Poem: The Placing
The green of the air.
The scent of choking desert.
Movie Mothers
I want to call you up
and say that every
movie I watch lately
stars you.
Motor
Now my mouth doesn’t know what
my shadow is saying.
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