Thursday, May 9, 2019

It was a cold night, but our neighborhood escaped the frost. Now sunbeams slant through maple-tree lace, two little dogs on the sidewalk strain at their leashes, tulips prick their sharp noses skyward, and I turn away from the headlines with loathing and fear.

This will be a day of small poems, of sharp stones, of folded sheets. Metaphors are blisters on the hand.

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