small poems & small plates
the constant painter. Constant weaver. Patterns from strands of fabric. The meal from leftovers. In summer, always a leaf or two of basil in the mix.
No one knows anything about the missing brooch. But I saw her take it and pocket the pin the other night. Is it up to me to spill the story, tell it bright?
No one knows anything about the missing brooch. But I saw her take it and pocket the pin the other night. Is it up to me to spill the story, tell it bright?
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