prose poem
-
the cold came down nordic. each flake landing on its sibling, incrementally adding more depth to the blanketing whiteness. the only contradicting spots roads no one was traveling on. i know. It is my job to see. I am BiNoc, The Eye. Like the third, I see what is not visible. The horizon extends out…
-
who would’ve thought that ten minutes of writing would be hard. after all, in the span of a lifetime what is ten minutes? a pot of coffee boiling? the amount of time it takes to fry chicken golden brown on one side? amount of time i spend telling my child to brush his teeth in…
Tichaona Chinyelu 