Too hectic to take a bow
in the warm dust;
torn by moment
as meadow.
Too hectic to take a bow
in the warm dust;
torn by moment
as meadow.
Cool voice,
this art;
church,
wing.
Here in the
terrible cheek
telling lies,
stained by
the searching
southern light
as it claws
across
the porch
in a brief
and common
“I will.”
Insight,
a small welt
of freedom.