Author: Every Writer

This is about me

Hungry Seasons by Evan Warren

If I could speak in any language
it would be the one winter flirts with
before kissing the fall with its first closed-mouth snow.

On the fly leaf,
I leave words.
Implied leaves
flutter past, green

I peered through granny glasses
at the standard issue
crew cut frat boys

U.S. 1 drips into the into the Atlantic
where the sun sets and tourists applaud;

She died like a poem
Wordless and obstructed

I love to see a parking lot being
reclaimed by the weeds,
when it becomes

inamorata of the deep
frozen into their thousand-year dreams,
feed wryly upon one another.

She’s sitting on his bed,
Can’t remember the deaf or the blind,
The souvenir of illo tempore is lost
With her once at his forgotten side,

your lips,
cut like razors,
tap dancing on inapt destinies.

Fifty Four by Carla Paolini To give my thought a body I choose a corps de ballet I’d have it