In·ter·punct shares book reviews, art news, lit theory and daily musings from the intimate lives of writers. It seeks to highlight, in an edgy and sprightly fashion, the poetic moments that punctuate our lives.
I am a child of the dusk
Just preceding a first snow
Soft pinks and lavender
Errant clouds accented by the gold of the sun
Yet still prone to greys and blue
Stark, black shadows and silhouettes.
I am of those too.
I am of Buffalo’s November air,
Transforming clouds over hours of time
Bringing snow and winter
Bringing the hopes for the sparkle of a morning frost
Beautiful, biting with light, frozen breaths of severe reality,
I am both the light and the the heavy, the dark.
I am hope and despair.
I will shake the bones of the fragile
And exercise excitement in the lungs of the hot blooded.
But mostly, I am entirely indifferent to any concentrated, thawing efforts.
In·ter·punct shares interviews, expositions, poems and daily musings from the intimate lives of writers. Like the interpunct, which is a middot used to separate syllables, this blog seeks to highlight, in an edgy and sprightly fashion, the poetic moments that punctuate our lives.