i rested on the handle of my spade and smoked. i witnessed a congregation of privet, solemn hemmed and so cuffed with berries that even the herring birds, oddly black against the cloud, eschewed with cackles and coughs and with caution; such is tumbling rubbish on a breeze. i worked a thread of wet tobacco from my tongue to … Continue reading the bitter taste of almost breathing
coddled on the northeast coast as an autumn guest, we sweated a weekend out between her sheets until, the colour of almost - boiled albumen, i became. haltwhistle©reeves2019
she wrote a poem once and, maybe deluded, i thought it was for me. she'd written nine hundred poems in her time, but this one was for me. i looked into her grayed eyes that day and they were like cameras to me. i looked at her lips and that night i heard the words … Continue reading like cameras to me.
nickreeves 