• Carly Feinman

Day 46- 11.1.20

Water can’t lie

It’s scrumptious, isn’t it.

The way the bay bends with the breeze

like an airborne golf ball;

curving and undulating with

the arrogance and je ne sais quoi

of an aloof Parisian.

It’s curious, too, watching the ripples

will themselves forward, extending still

beyond the shore’s sight

to that distant theory: the open sea.

Walking along the bay, I find myself moved

to tears, which isn’t rare these days, and still

these tears are different somehow—

as if the beauty contained in this blue pool

might actually mean something similar to hope

even on a Sunday,

even in times like these.


Recent Posts

See All

Day 74- 11.29.20

Were I Were I born a river, I'd know just what to do. I'd bound forward, eager as a water buffalo breaking free from the alligator's jaw. Were I born a river, I'd ripple downhill with purpose, with ar

Day 73- 11.28.20

Faux It started as a joke when I lived in Bushwick and couldn’t afford to turn on the heat. I’d turn on the video I found online of a slow fire burning and I’d laugh and laugh as my toes froze through

Day 72- 11.27.20

Winter green (a collage) Checkered flannel pants, pine trees, a rural Tuscan church covered buried in vines. Twinkle lights reflected over piles of snow, grey sludge, and the cold breath of kids. Ivy