petersargison


Writing

The birds on the Wire

And though these notes burst forth / In signatures of feathered time / So that my ears can nearly grasp / I am unable to name their song

Under the Street Surface

Hunger: by day’s hammered construction / Endless motion / And under the split face of the moon

Outpour from a Bore

she sighed wearily, perceptibly hunching her shoulders in preparation for another of his often morbid and always self-righteous rants.

These days of broken glass

There must be a window somewhere / Since days blur by like trees / From a speeding car

Red Eyed Night

Relief sleeps curled by the devil’s chair

Lover's Language

A dancer sleepwalking on a pathless mountain

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