folio : short takes on the prose poem
i told hana i had to try to submerge myself in the clicking. prose poem is a friend to me because it can stay closest to my joy, drift, panic.
BOTH, EVERYTHING SAID, HANDS ON THE CONE AT THE END OF THE FOG, FILLING WITH AIR, FLESH RIGHTLY PULLED, WHALES ASLEEP VERTICAL, SOUND OF A TOMB. ALL I COULD SAY ABOUT THE BRIGHT YELLOW PICKLE IS IT’S DEAD, THE PICKLE, IT’S DEAD
