Prodigal Hands
Sometimes I think that without these writings,I would drift off into space like a child’s balloon. Sometimes I think I already have. Sometimes I rejoice in the return of my prodigal hands,and do not ask where they have been. Sometimes I am not I, but the wind. Sometimes I find this body by the road,and wonder if it might be something I said. Sometimes I simply bow my head. Field […]
William Michaelian 