Kay Cosgrove
The night John went to Algarve and I took the R from 59th to
23rd
Moles, breaking records borrowing into the punt of wine bottles,
Ordering prescription eyewear down on 21st street, their fur
Leaving trails on sidewalks, suitcases. They're hiding everywhere.
I swore I saw one leering at me behind the television set.
When did mud become too thick and motel pools too white?
There's an anchor pulling at my kidneys every time I read my e-mail,
Little muddy piles covering the screen of this and that, airplanes
To Portugal, hallow tambourines. One billion little moles
Feasting on my fingernails, flying over empty skyscrapers.
Kay Cosgrove's work has appeared in SP Quill Quarterly and Abbeywood Anthologies. She
writes daily because she perhaps foolishly believes words have the power to change
everything. She lives and works in New York City.
Home
Issue One
The night John went to Algarve and I took the R from 59th to
23rd
Moles, breaking records borrowing into the punt of wine bottles,
Ordering prescription eyewear down on 21st street, their fur
Leaving trails on sidewalks, suitcases. They're hiding everywhere.
I swore I saw one leering at me behind the television set.
When did mud become too thick and motel pools too white?
There's an anchor pulling at my kidneys every time I read my e-mail,
Little muddy piles covering the screen of this and that, airplanes
To Portugal, hallow tambourines. One billion little moles
Feasting on my fingernails, flying over empty skyscrapers.
Kay Cosgrove's work has appeared in SP Quill Quarterly and Abbeywood Anthologies. She
writes daily because she perhaps foolishly believes words have the power to change
everything. She lives and works in New York City.
Home
Issue One
All rights reserved.
Chickenpinata
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |