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Tag Archives: B. T. Joy
The greatest misconception about the lives of the saints is that our lives are so different. Sleepers, while waking, don’t change substance. You’ll find all your wild dreams happened really under blankets in the night’s kind haven. Just like Saint … Continue reading
Waterfall, shape unknown, falls through long grass which side we can’t tell of the brown inter-village roads that barracuda through that tall, dry stuff. White probably at its feet on stones; stone-small like a song two rooms away or a … Continue reading
Imagine first (I bet you’re glad you stopped me) there are geographies in the way heart race becomes a patch of plum growth roaring updraft pink and bruise purple in whispered coins; bishops in form but not in content meeting … Continue reading
Wouldn’t it be nice to go back; to have that option. The small garden behind the tapas place sold wine by the glass and by the bottle. For us it was the bottle and the uninvidious grass around us that … Continue reading
Grief must be taken from the barn to the yellow grass in a burn of sun. With grief, like a fish drawn up from the sea, there’s only one way to turn it into nourishment. It must be wrestled bodily … Continue reading
I don’t say no though the caliper stretches the skin; though aquatic lizards drown and the blind woman climbs onto a sepulchre in Rome to announce herself, in this night galaxy, the only one who sees. Then again the trees … Continue reading
Maybe I love the poems that are more sound than meaning after all. And so maybe I only love to say: Smuggle in new lungs and wing nuts to install a plate of sheet metal on her pierced heartwall. B. … Continue reading