2201
7.8
8.i.26
silk
water in the Sunday month
year ended
no other begun
among trees taller
a so brisk breeze as blue
eyes round
at the day
at a run
one claims the privilege of
nowhere
it’s often the case we wake
to what was
in every flower bright
some sun
this cannot be relied upon
one fears a wall of fire
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.