Eve Rounds

i’m ashamed

of my own lack of: will power, motivation, tenacity…

of. lacking. any thing. in general.

outsiders will read this and passionately disagree. but only you, meaning me meaning you too, knows what truly and fully goes on inside the inside of the underside of things.

i stop and sink. fall forward. and often consider this movement an onward direction. when really, it’s just down down down. eyes opened or closed, it’s all the color of mud.

things appear to have gone dark, but my heart has not been blackened in any direction.

as i walk blindfolded, i can smell my dad’s lincoln roses in every room, in every ravine.

oh yeah AND

dad's wine cellar

dad’s wine cellar. only in south carolina, folks.


a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards


what did falling in love feel like to you actual falling a new winter sweater a blood flutter did you question its science or were you


sometimes the wind the waves muffle and drown my memories sometimes the wind the waves magnify and amplify the sound of your voice and clearing

the theatre

this is  a silent film flickering  catching  starting over emptiness surrounding such a blinding contrast ahead of us shared stories  captured images disconnected nonsensical we