I hear, as if on a grey day. If all I have is through, the pool moves. Un-tuck me at the scribble of feathered wrist; and dribble at God’s window-pane. Gust is the scrawl I see as wonder; crippled at the hillside.
I sit; a nut, turn in my shell, eyes in backward. Dig a wee self; forage in the glen of fine, crude cells. I’m pressed. Ears in the ocean seize… a mutinous song. Feb 23 2017
Diabolical twitch in the darkness; singer in the light. I’ve come to winking at the fly, its odd caress and back of a turbulent sea; and whistling over wings of a wet gnat. At day I load my beanbag with the cat and another three yak of what they […]
In the sigh of frescoes immortal eyes unhinge. It’s you, me and the old moving air that flees in tasted gust to the walls and keels in a pirouette. Intervals are rent for the choir when all dust is met with the roof as they sing and they sing or when the […]