G. A. Scheinoha
It's one of those last days in early fall, nearly as hot as the preceding season that ended only weeks ago. He sits in a recliner. LIght streams through the bay window, strikes full in the face, both warms and blinds him.
tendrils of touch –
He's fallen into a meditative, vegetative fugue. A book of poems lies in his lap. His left hand rests gingerly on the cover. Often he delves into the book. Pages flutter. Springs creak as he rises to the nearby desk. Paper, when an image cuts loose, ranging freely across his imagination.
lasts longer than
cold childhood mornings