Writings from The Rabbit Hole
Bright Yellow - becomes cloying moments after. The Beech trees pour with butter, warm butter onto the pallid blue sky. The branches cross into cloistered taverns I could walk up into - Where I might press a finger into something I have not yet seen: A Redwing's feather, its abandoned egg, the warmth of my left hand. I am laughing for these things are my only focus and when I see a house, I run.












