day 18: twister




Not everything is his.

The smell especially

of Kansas


Dark dust spiral


Green sky inside

of a marble.



my stories have wings


sometimes lose their houses,

stained glass,

Pears on the sidewalk

half-eaten by the wind.


When its kind

the billboards start shaking.

Catch your hair enough

to loose it from its bun.


One room will remain

standing, the one he


did not touch.

Basement child, lay against the dark.

Crack a can of peaches

and wait for the breeze to die.


The air is dry and warm.

It has the low voice of your mother.

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