Roy

The drooling moo of a cow came from beyond the barn. The clouds palmed ahead, July dayed itself away. All was still, hot, quiet, dumb. But what I remember most: the smell of wicker, a brown moth, my shoelaces stuck in the brambles, a swelling of strings that was heard by no one. This is … Continue reading Roy

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7/7/7

I throb like a drug thinking: Thoughts in a butterfly net How can I return to form? I still stall between two fools: My love will be barbed in spite My love will be spiked with love Make me dumb, where life is still.