So there she is, the minor farceur. Here is what she supposes;
to have been
Some force, incalculable,
A tutelary shelter from the fray.
Instead she steps into you
under a stem of sandlewood.
Your fingers wrap over
hers to dress Palmer
method fluency into
her southpaw stammer.
Drawings in the Alabama red
clay tell the faded tales
they deny with peach
tinted souls.
1 comment:
Every time we set out, we are capable of becoming lost, even when we are convinced we are found. So here I am.
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