Stuart Ross

Pages: 1 2 3

Summer Becomes Fall

I heard some doubts arise.

I heard a pouch of money.

I heard a sudden flash.

I heard my third eye.

 

I heard an airplane far above her.

I heard a bobbing pleasure craft.

I heard her face above the muscle.

I heard the smell of Mexico.

 

I heard the nervous system of aphids.

I heard a threadbare prostitute.

I heard Rob Petrie, Laura, the Mertzes.

I heard the body’s leakage.

 

I heard I stopped smoking suddenly.

I heard when I was eight.

I heard a twitching little nose.

I heard a glorious monster.

 

I heard her skip rope on hopscotch chalk.

I heard the little plops.

Pages: 1 2 3

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    It takes a long time for a man to look like his portrait.
    - James McNeill Whistler

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    Dedication

    To the memory of Stephen Potts