Independent of the eye-stinging secondhand smoke, today has been hot garbage for me, both of my husbands, and the mother of my godchild, which is not how anyone should spend Alan Turing's yahrzeit. Have a ghost poem for him which I had not previously encountered: Linda Bierds, "Evolution." I am forty-one years old, not yet close enough to my birthday to have outlived him, unimaginably closer than when I was sixteen. When Christopher Morcom was my age, he had been dead for twenty-three years.
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Active Entries
- 1: Here we are in the summer rain again
- 2: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 3: You're on, music master
- 4: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 5: To cormorant to samphire to plover
- 6: I'm the left hand ticking on the timeless clock
- 7: Hope and anger in the ink and on the streets
- 8: Rewriting old excuses, delete the kisses at the end
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