ceci n’est pas une blog.

this version of me is standing

somewhere in that space between

existence and being,

staring into the sunset

from the banks of the hudson river.

the heavy air is warm and smells like dirt,

she blows bubbles into the breeze

until it is too dark to see them shine.

a woven blanket lies beneath

her long and wispy cotton skirt and

her boots, so tough they feel dangerous.

she slides it from under and

lies back to connect with earth.

with grass to her cheek

and joint to her lips,

she dreams upstream

and waits for it to come.