Still — not empty.
Not everything that lingers is unfinished. Some things remain because they no longer need to move — Between holding on and letting go, nothing is forced, nothing is…
Archive
Before the Turn
It starts before it shows. Just before a storm breaks, the air goes still. The trees stop moving. Sound drops out of everything at once. Pressure builds without…
Nothing Ahead
It comes the way certain dreams do, a road that feels known without ever being seen.
Beginnings
Where land thins into water, the ground gives way without warning. Sand slipping underfoot. Forms never quite hold— they soften and shift before they settle.
Open Line
Someone is already talking when the call connects. Another voice comes in, slightly late, slightly off. No one stops. The exchange continues, close enough to follow.
Half Like Home
Something shifted before the wheels left the ground, barely noticeable, as if what was familiar had already begun to recede. What lay ahead had no clear shape yet,…
Twenty-Six
Twenty-six hours in one place. A place meant for passing through. Lines hold. Bodies stay. Seats fill and empty, then fill again. No place to rest a head.
Unfinished Hours
a poem by Kerry Ann Wiley The hours move forward, interrupted by brief, unspoken turns that linger longer than they should. The scenes arrive in sequence: dusk against…
Thirty-Five Minutes
The light above the stove flickers when she touches the switch. It always does—once, twice, then a low buzz before it stays on. The bulb is new. The fixture is not.
Nothing Went Wrong—and That Was the Problem
The conference room was already warm when Michael arrived—the kind of warmth that comes from screens, lights, and equipment running long before anyone enters.