Prose

They doused the salted field with iodine and dreams.
“Except for the barley, let those keep their gold and morning.”
Logos, but for letters.
 
~
 
There will be snow and rain, same day of fine things.
Mixed up. Mixed, enamel in champlevé
damascening like a dance, the curling, whey hope.
 
~
 
Not theory today, please.
Maybe that movie about Merritt typewriters feeling obsolete.
I’ll walk myself out, batch of bread and milk bagged.
 
~
 
“This is piction is eo ipso is an illustrated text.”
Why not more bay stories or rare ones at the lounge?
Because this is foreign, dialogue.


* This tweetfic sequence first appeared in the literary journal "Cricket Online Review".