Sketches

4. The faraway noise of children's television, a sensibility hammering hammering hammering away, it's own private voice, not easily quieted, in the stereophonic mind, the mailman drives past in his old jeep, the sun softly teases at the blinds, pulsing again to the throb of a life, tired from mental labor and physical hours, a drift, an immense and dreamless sleep

Sketches

2.

The world is still a beautiful place.

I see the trees softly blanketed in the morning fog.

His limbs warm around my womanly thighs.

The last minutes bundled in snuggle.

Soft breaths and cloudy sleep.