shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Glenn Ingersoll


letters walking target feathers

Is that chair being used, even if neglectfully?
A dry wind blows steam off a silver surface.
She eats. He eats.
It's years since I did that as anything other than a joke.

It's here the line again begins this trembling.
The curtains contain miles of light.
Where did you put it, when I grew tired of it?
At the café we will eat, then walk out with coffee in our hands.

I carried my head in my hands, unable to put it down.
Nobody likes the cat's limp. It's inartful.
A white layer through the midsection.
A mapping, not of the landscape but of pebbles.