Site icon A Hundred Falling Veils

Five from Highway 285

hole in the fence—
while driving sixty
my mind slips through

*

frozen stream
still the sound
of water

*

trading in my name
for two
round stones

*
snow bluster and squall—
in the rearview mirror
all blue

*

nothing nothing nothing
in the field, and so much
filling it in

Exit mobile version