Eve Rounds


is it the ticking of the third hand
or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries
both measuring time
“going in circles”
as he would say
these days
when favoritisim has no force
but neither do flashing lights or this perfect view
chasing in circles and triangular dimensions
sprinklers soaking stone instead of lawn
the three of us meet in the driveway
behind the impeccably parked mini suv
masks muffling sobs
tears splattering plastic
embracing in circles

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