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
Motor
Now my mouth doesn’t know what
my shadow is saying.
The Miracle
“The miracle wasn’t that the statues were crying;
It was in the amount of people who undoubtedly
believed that they were witnessing one.”
Harlequin Frames
while deciphering spatter, I remember
your squinting, your pondering,
& the magnetics of twiddling fingers
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