Page 7 - POTB Issue 11
P. 7

January



                         On Sunday we discover
                         how deep we can sink
                         into couch cushions

                         and count on fists
                         the days without rain.

                         Fields without flowers,
                         matted grass, trees too tired
                         to fight against the wind.

                         We are not at a beginning
                         but the middle – grey and silent.

                         We bury thoughts
                         beneath blankets and braid
                         our legs into one.
                         The paper sits, unread
                         on the coffee table.

                         We try to move
                         but cannot break apart
                         this jigsaw puzzle.


                         Kris Erin Anderson











                                                                      Upset



                                                                      the dining table
                                                                      had
                                                                      one cardboard leg

                                                                      which was fine
                                                                      until
                                                                      it started raining


                                                                      Haworth Hodgkinson














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