The lake swallows me in a scramble of cramping muscles and weeds. I flail, gasp swallow thrash; bubbles jet through water, a string of crystal balls to the past I reach to catch.
Art fades into the gloom, music can no longer be heard. The players become ghosts on a dim stage. Words separate from their meaning and books are useless objects…
Under the autumn moon,An altar sitsIn your garden,Dried herbsFreshly picked applesA handful of fall leavesAnd a bowl of water — an offering to the grandmother moon.She […]
The pre-dawn hunt and peck is on, although conclusions seem forgone. Every muse tries to contuse my fingertips and to confuse the digits stretching from my palms…