Well Read You are my once-a-year read, spine long broken and wrinkle soft I want you even after your corners and brittle to break at the fold-o Yes, I’ve folded you again and ag
The Myth We Lent to God In pieces now, slowly dissected, a I drive across the bay from east t At night, a silhouette of what onc that grey metal testament of man’s stretching from crane to crane.
Wind blue buttered biscuits floating fluttering flittering rustled red leaves dance branches creak back a crack billowing bellows above the bedroc
