Today a tree fell from my hand,
on count of six:exhale, the rough
taste of newsprint licked in wisps
with a sable-tongued spine.
Empty, insurgent calm swelled tall
enough to pause the tremors, until
branches leaked, and a trunk stood
on its own.
I fell asleep reading a dull book, and I dreamt that I was reading on, so I woke up from sheer boredom.
This page was last modified on 2011 December 20. "Practice, in Ink" by John Sullivan is Copyright ©2003 - 2011, and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.