Author: Evelyn McLean

  • Fissures

    I stacked my attention around me but doing so now harbored no fissures in which to snare a
    sweet
    wiggling
    word
    They once
    washed in
    on tides
    of feeling,
    iridescent rage
    rough rope restrained binding my typing hand
    fissures-
    crevices-
    eddies-
    shelves-
    corners-
    surfaces-
    where little
    worries grow
    like moss-
    and get rotted in their self- propagating at mos phere and leave me speech less