Feb 12, 2022
1 min read
The U_familiar
Our nib hits a snowball and the Himalayas turn blue.
The thorn arms stretched across this window are grabbed by the same photographer who I left at this mountain floor. This span is the same, the poet decorated as its pillar, is the same. Grey songs scribbled all over her neck.
I have films, that are now webs breaking in their designed tenacity
The trees scream through their branches for the rain
The fields…
