The Prose Poem Project

The Prose Poem Project


This morning, while driving, sunlight hit my hands. My veins pulsed in the glow. It reminded me of our conversation last night, about that man in Arizona who learned to capture moonlight and heal the body. You said there wasn’t much going on. Nothing on TV, but commercials. I was engulfed in Camus: the scene where the boy is convulsing with plague filled me with envy. On the news they talked about a super model who died mysteriously, the economy, the war, how bodies were thrown into wells and children, with missing limbs, had flies covering their faces. I’m drinking coffee now. It’s three in the afternoon, overcast. I’m still without work, writing this letter to remember. I forget so many things.


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