small poems & small plates
INTUITIONLetting all brush with danger takes its time, they lingered in the ancient ruins. A certainty called to them as stones crumbling might still sing. He beckoned for her to sit next to him on the aging swing, and put his cloak on the warped board for her comfort. Off in the distance, they could hear the faint splash of a fountain, its iron spout full of lichen and rust.