I know what lady bugs inhabit and I know the rabbit hole deeper down, and racket that doesn’t make sense—and bracken, just a word hanging over a pond. You can say all you want about bracken but the point is the past, albeit even that doesn’t matter, a point being next to nothing, indivisible; but… [Read More]
Lynne Potts
Twelve Clocks Dance the Sea
First clock skipping to sequins and glitter tilted to the sea’s mirror set on a blue vanity. Not the second—frenetic, breathy, high-strung like wire for a tightrope walker. When I saw the third, it was going to Key West in a ferry washing in a sink of bobbing cups. Number four wore a T-shirt backwards,… [Read More]