Grief/ is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it
Denise Levertov
AnasAbdin
trying on a metaphor
d e v o n
i don't do bad sauce passes

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shark vs the universe
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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Today's Document

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romaâ

Origami Around

Discoholic đȘ©

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if i look back, i am lost
Not today Justin
todays bird
YOU ARE THE REASON
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@emphatico
Grief/ is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it
Denise Levertov
A book must be an ice axe to break the sea frozen inside us
Franz Kafka
Delphiniums in a Window Box, by Dean Young
Every sunrise, sometimes strangersâ eyes.
Not necessarily swans, even crows,
even the evening fusillade of bats.
That place where the creek goes underground,
how many weeks before I see you again?
Stacks of books, every page, characterâs
rage and poetâs strange contraption
of syntax and song, every song
even when there isnât one.
Every thistle, splinter, butterfly
over the drainage ditches. Every stray.
Did you see the meteor shower?
Every question, conversation
even with almost nothing, cricket, cloud,
because of you Iâm talking to crickets, clouds,
confiding in a cat. Everyone says
Come to your senses, and I do, of you.
Every touch electric, every taste you,
every smell, even burning sugar, every
cry and laugh. Toothpicked samples
at the farmerâs market, every melon,
plum, I come undone, undone.
the west has helped me listen to myself/the west is a place that kills and kills and kills
Ed Skoog, âA mile outside of Yellowstoneâ
no one is going to deny us the city we grew up in
Copper Canyon Press
My memory, my prison
Theodore Roethke
Red Cloth, by Jean Valentine
Red cloth I lie on the ground otherwise nothing could hold
I put my hand on the ground the membrane is gone and nothing does hold
your place in the ground is all of it and it is breathing
"Deck of Cards" by David Huerta
The angels of lime
come unraveled
at a vibration
of chance and breakfast.
The demons were concealing
sands when they discovered
the spirit
of explosions.Â
Demons, angels
go on picking up
what corresponds to each
from the deck
of the afterworld:Â
From fatigue comes the star,
from the rose the rivers,
from the hand the path
... and from the white nets
the blackness of homicide.
How even colour can never be quiet
Homecoming, by Tishani Doshi
Which one is your âcup of teaâ?
The Ocean, by Gordon Preston
has always
spoken to me
sometimes just blueÂ
sharp as a thorn
and sometimes cold
like a humanÂ
and downÂ
from the sea cliffÂ
there are no strangersÂ
to her sound
all her animals
know
wavesÂ
dance their wayÂ
to the shoreÂ
in shoutsÂ
at high tide
and dreamlike at low
when night comes in
its darkening face
climbs the horizon
and the poor bonesÂ
of driftwood
wait to rise as peacefulÂ
smoke from a fire ring
to a heaven trailing
like a veilÂ
between usÂ
Suppose you do change your life. / & the body is more
Ocean Vuong, âTorso of Airâ
I am ready to be every animal/ you leave behind
Ocean Vuong, âThanksgiving 2006âł
She loves the invisible passages between questions. / What hurts, falls through her. The answer is always love.
Ales Steger, âDoormatâ
"We take in the glowing eyes, the spectral hands, the starched collar, the frozen smile, and in that encounter a feelingâa storyâbegins to unspool in our minds."
Dustin Illingworth, âHow Author Photos Change the Way We Readâ
Let every river envy our mouths
Ocean Vuong, âA Little Closer to the Edgeâ
Show me how ruin makes a home / out of hip bones
Ocean Vuong, âNight Sky with Exit Woundsâ