Robert Grazioli
...
the dead aren't buried.
they are sewn into earth
and left
to cradle fruit
and bear their roots.
...
there is poetry in the order of things
the infinite particles
our invisible strings
pulling always
and never
suspended on steel
screaming toward brutality
where
the garden was
a bud in hand
to plant one was to bloom a smile
mine
grew love
A note to an aspiring designer.
A thought experiment on the importance and meaning of process.
i blacked out
the night was drenched
in spoiled, oaked, grain
i sipped it dry and forgot it had rained
my memories
drained
betray me
they make me up and crack me