Tuesday, January 8, 2013

First you begin inside a womb, 

(of sun and pockets of air and light)

A whole little universe, 
A tangle of roads and veins.
Blown up, an entire bush, 

You are the only middle size. Everything is tiny, or it is huge. Small enough to be held in your hands, fall to the ground to be lost with all the little artifacts. Or so big that you can't see from end to end, the horizon stretching in a circle around you. The sun sinks. Color is subtracted.

 And then you have the dry crunch of plants and their petals crumbling. Every spare patch of ground looks like a circle in which to stretch your body, look up at the sky. You reach out to touch something and it explodes, disappears beneath your fingers. It seems every way you look, there are mountains, but they're all a thousand miles away turning pink from the sun. 


  1. To see inside a dream! I think you've inspired me to take photographs with my BFF.

    1. Oh yes. Always! (They're much more patient than boyfriends.)


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