January 10, 2015 at 3:25 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , )

Again, they bend to pick it up – a small flake of white gloss, bright on the ruby carpet, at the foot of the door frame. They haven’t time to wonder at the origin of the flake .
Each morning Alice removes an old-fashioned matchbox from the kitchen drawer, and steadying herself with one hand on the doorknob, uses the rough, striking edge to ever-so-slightly shave the frame.

Framed by familiar doors –
time to circumnavigate.
Hushed valediction.



  1. Allie said,


please feel free to comment on these poems - all feedback appreciated. :)

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