929
3.203
brittle
light
etch about
falls of thus
frogs morning to themselves
still sing
colour to follow
another
the tip shone misted
track webbed too
suddenly a shadow patched
so a voice distilled
a certain birdrise
mud of these falls
day takes off
I, afoot in all
here, living the life
lost in such a tune as this
must wait for the paint
to dry
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.