If poetry is madeat the edge of running water,then god only knows what artistry waits within the brim…
There are some I still carry,white lakes or slivers festoonedin the pink flesh of…
You know you don’t really have the timeto figure out how I got into this messthe leavings of…
boredom, reflectionthey are what I feelconstantscrolling of feedsand news that disappoint