Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

Archive for ‘April, 2021’

When

The last thread of the braid snaps,Or maybe one or two before the lastThis fact doesn’t matter, Trivial it might beFor what rememberedNot matching what notMeans…

Though…

Though I am picking the winter season’s horse shitAnd putting it in the green wheelbarrowEverything depends on this moment. I don’t want to forget it, the…