voices—tiny hooves
galloping off—no louder
than butterfly wings
voices—tiny hooves
galloping off—no louder
than butterfly wings
the underside
of a battlefield, armies
churning above
pillows by the window
their mountains rumpled
sunlight and shadows
I almost hear—
in silence—the low groan of
molecules rubbing
when leaves,
branches, and a trunk
become a tree
I heard her
counting blossoms
as I passed
Why do I daily
walk so many miles to
reach this dry well?
some days wanting
one back is wanting
them all
the silence
when stillness becomes
hope
he never thought
her fear of clowns would
extend to him