by Darryl Price


often visit me in my room, so quietly, so suddenly, buzzing my head

with wonderful, possible sentences. Sometimes I find they've been there radiating all along, 

children ready to burst out in a sneaky fit of laughter if I

move just slightly or too much out of my own unsuspecting comfort zone. I've

never seen them wag their fingers at me like I have a tendency


to do. If anybody does that it's usually me alone cradling them in

my imperfect, impatient arms like a tickling field of bright petals and random

tumbling butterflies. I can't hold them for very long I've noticed, but I

do like to sit and just be one with them, move among them,

being aware of their many spirited preferences. How amazing to observe their many


beautiful suits they wear. They practically glow and light up every inch of

this earth to me. Every once in a while one or two of

them might come over and investigate me and my thoughts, but they are

soon on their way like nothing more than quick snapping windy daydreams, dissolving

into a lost feeling like bells. I collect their dusty footprints for later on. 

Bonus poem:

A Paper Moon for Emily

You were gone crying into us

and initially the taste

of you was very true with a

little longing. We wanted your

every second brought forward, each

thread of your thinking self, while you

were here kept, left permanently

on display, examined, opened,

cherished, day after day, but

upon reading your letters I

felt your unique loneliness like

paper sky, torn, unusable

and buried in birds.It broke me

down without so much as a small

wave of a tiny arm. This may

not be your kind of poetry,

but still I care. You grabbed me from

your mind from a long time ago.

Note, it is received and given

its perpetual freedom, thanks.

From a future friend, I'm sorry

we can't answer your questions, Em,

in the voice you deserve; I swear

a whole world's written back to you a thousand times over.