paint

I can't scrape away the last of my paint just can't though I've been peeling myself away from these walls seven years now new walls, yes, can wear my color it's yours I'll miss © Sarah Whiteley

the winter roost

the crows come again, perch within the remnants of summer - turned to rust and rue; they've come again with their own narrative, their inscrutable truths - strike their own lines against November's sky, while we try blindly (futile) to navigate stolen darknesses; fixed, and non-migratory - roosting in huddled groups for the long and … Continue reading the winter roost

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thinking of those days behind the wheel, cat stretched across the dash, exemption stretched out along straight, gray highways trying now not to swallow that hook, though lately it seems the city hates me, shoves me toward her swilled-to-the-gill gutters back then, there was the bag kept in the back and it didn't matter that … Continue reading *

writing home

the small-birds have finally found the window feeder and the dogs are enthralled with their sudden proximity we are well, though feeling the spring in our bones - that gentle eruption debuts a new brand of restlessness the boards of the porch have been too damp for comfortable reading, and coffee for now is confined … Continue reading writing home

the hours of you that remain

we say goodnight, then goodnight, and once more a goodnight of softening kisses - just as the dawn cracks the night I count the hours of you that remain to me, and tuck them about us - thin comfort against the coming light © Sarah Whiteley

some days just

here's that fracture point again when you just know you have to change things around, create a frisson of upheaval some days just settle down into the low-down, nose-to-cheek with d minor riffs and lost grips on others' barrelhouse hearts and yet there are other days - days that survive the coup to rise up, … Continue reading some days just

out of time

we were, for a time, each other's clocks - the tick-ticking of our fingers apart, counting the breaths before between until - until 2 AM yearning strikes, hungry as bells on Sunday - and we unwind, reset, sweep the seconds from our faces, cheeks to shoulders for a minute how I swallowed every moment, even … Continue reading out of time