The interior monologue...
Reduce the inputs.
Notice the resulting space.
Sit with it.
Days unfold...
Days unfold.
People unravel.
No promises given.
The end.
Life queue...
A grey Sunday.
A drive to see my folks.
Mom talked while dad slept.
Perhaps it’s the non-poetic mornings that have more to say…
…a queue of life desperate to be heard.
The wild ordinary...
Friday.
Finn.
The wild ordinary...
