by PM Flynn
Torn winds push time into shifting rooms; waterspilling that packs each carpet fiber tighter. After dinner with the moon who happened to be in town, there is no room for the sun anymore. Nights are a song on the shelf:the message on my machine where I find you now. Something happened, more than friends said: colored ribbons; depths of blue, red and green shades; the thinnest colors on walls that disappear at night as I close my eyes. There is a river within these rooms.I return to that shelf sometimes, when I hear the ocean. Leaving is easier than returning.