distich

This

afternoon the snow fell on the hood of my car.

large flakes like Sarah-Lee angel food slices. And for

those who see the apparition of Christ

on the cliff after the landslide, you should be me

thrashing amongst the parked cars.

I saw the undreamt sky over Amherst

where below Emily and Lavinia raced

each- other thru the scattered yard.

Even then the oft click of twigs;

their eggs and ovaries  starting to dry

before the railroad came thru town. 

Who was it that said that fate

wasn't slang for longing anyway? I like that

in all the person's I know/

the ones that wait and wait some more.

Because faith and being

objectionably plot-less are one in the same . Oh

Little indifferent sky that blurs the

loss of useful distinction. Sometimes you

make no sense.

Reviews

[writing mojo]

being seasonal can happen in the blink of a storming eye...
and rain is the best conductor for bringing life to light...

[W.k.kortas]

The mystery of faith (and, just maybe, Faith) studied undistiled by some old relic surrounded by relics and chalices. Praise be, and then some.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

no distinction...emily and religion, emily and love...

mostly fantasy...eggs and ovaries starting to dry long before their time, or her time...

i like those Sarah Lee flakes who think they see christ...they try to snow us with their landslide preaching.....meanwhile the speaker searches his car....amongst those undreamt skies...

always love following the different paths your writing takes me.