Monday, January 4, 2010
the thing relinquished its furs
ate the paper,
hung the tree.
The children outside
had to capture it twice,
promise it bread,
name it Son.
Posted by Julie Jansen at 5:26 AM
things learn to burn,
in eventual ways.
A match held carefully to a face,
the landscape hesitating temporarily,
then opening itself
Posted by Julie Jansen at 4:54 AM