The poets in America disappear while still alive like birds turned sideways against a hedge while the child just down the street keeps playing her violin with the door open. Clouds move with the wind across our faces.
Micro Memoir #758
The poets in America disappear while still alive like birds turned sideways against a hedge while the child just down the street keeps playing her violin with the door open. Clouds move with the wind across our faces.
Planet of the Blind 