Tuesday, September 24, 2019

Not what but whom

If we padlock the cooks...
If we padlock the artists...

1 comment:

  1. all that ever was will ever be she teethes the bone at noon, her daughter once a sheen now pierces the cold ennui, and as if the echo from the nearby hills could elicit new emotions, she sat by the window waiting for the pole to hoist its lowdown. No one's weeding the garden these days, fallow until dawn.