Ink

Dance in the shadow of moonlight

While your shoes crush the glass on the floor

And make sharp glitter on the linoleum

Grab onto hope and stick it in the oven

Then spread it on a roast for Thanksgiving

Let your brain turn into a pool of ink

And pour it all out into the sink

And dip your hands in it and paint the walls

Ruin the linens and the doors and the halls

Paint your neck and your eyes

And write love letters to boys

Who will read them and keep them in boxes under the bed

So they can sleep over hopes and dreams.

Stick a knife in a pillow and watch the feathers burst out

But do all this in silence

So they won’t find out.

Loophole

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The Box Outside The Window

Outside the window there sits a box. It has never been opened. It has never left the spot by the front porch, even though the weather has come and gone. It is made of a strong material, something that would appear to last the test of time, or maybe it’s something magical, either way, it has not moved since it was placed there by a man in a grey uniform like so many men in grey uniforms do every day. Continue reading “The Box Outside The Window”