lightly sweeping fingers hide the place behind them
a kept villa lost from rule
instantaneous effemeral
the mother smiles over laundry folded in its basket steps out of her life into the next
beak breaks the fragile, red tomato
devours the flesh and the future
delivers tomorrow to the world next door
It's just something. A late something!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment