Fern fronds and other spores of thought: A tight ropes walk through the vine foragings' of inky, bird footed words and wild hair, to the high alpine lake, up past the glaciers, in monuments of dust, the liberty bell, and the treaty of ver-psych-out. The rumbling gut of American language, writing, and poetry, with love.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Athletes and Aesthetes
i see you go, like trying to be a ghost, in the bus station of men, draped -
you just might not be seen, being ghost-like. fleeing on softer feet, i am watching, oh so ghost-like.
No comments:
Post a Comment