The reading window is open. The envelopes are stacking up.
Each year the apples take longer to ripen than you remembered.
So I’m dreaming and in the dream, I’m thinking, this dream wouldn’t make a good poem because it’s stuck.
My grandmother had a fairly close relationship with a piano. I have an intimate relationship with an Imac.
The “first fine careless rapture” is startlingly loud just now. And it’s not the first.
The weather forecasters are doing nothing but apologise.