Grad student, copywriter, poet (of sorts)
there is a singsong lightness to your voiceit does me no good,no good at all.
staring out the back doorwatching the old live oak treesway in the evening wind.
the hawthorne trees bloom whiteon the rolling hillsa thousand years hangamid the white and green flowersand the thorny, twisted branchesfollow tortured pathsin the heavy air.
the television is on in the other roomi can’t here it, but the irregular flashingjumping shadows and coloursconvince me.