from the folder to be determined / 1962 to 2026

I dreamed

of Elaine San Marcos last night

sent to me from Hillside Manor

the brick and mortar housing project

down by the river

delivered there from Sao Miguel

surrounded by water.

 

little poem

my MacBook is running late.

It’s old and stained.

I should track the stains down,–– 

down to from whence they came,

down to their origins, down to the errant

slips of the tongue caused by

the fork’s inadequacy to hold on to its goods.

the little plops upon the silvery platform are dark

stones dropped to a glistening snow.

this is a poem of stains because something of note

had to become of them.