from, Haunted Forest

IX. A Part of This World, and a World of Its Own

It was time as a color, or my
life, in miniature.

It was sunrise & my feet got wet
in the dew. It was all the moon
did, it was my hair, full
of secrets.

A pocketful of frogs, the girl who
gave birth to rabbits, the happiest
crocodile, & party hats for all.

here is what will go here:

Poetry, particularly in-progress, or tracking process.

Prose, which is what my poetry sounds like sometimes (or vice-versa).

Things I find intrinsic to writing, or to what I’m writing now.

Things I currently find intrinsic to writing include knitting (which calms my head, like klonopin in craft-form) & bread (which requires patience & visceral interaction), & soup (the making of which also calms my head, but is far more forgiving than bread & amenable to experimentation).  So maybe sometimes this will be about knitting, &/or bread &/or soup.

Tonight I am knitting fingerless mitts because enclosed spaces make my fingers vaguely claustrophobic.

Tonight’s bread is white/wheat/rye, & cracked from rising, & looks vaguely like Venus of Willendorf.

Tonight’s soup is roasted onions & garlic & red cabbage & potatoes, which is nicer than it sounds.

Hello.