P o e t r y
S o n g s
D i a r y
S t o r i e s
Home
my eyes are open
but three inches to the brain
is so very far
bleakly
across the sky
and an agitated leaf
totters
slowly across the road
like an old aged pensioner
at the back of
the garage a
fly
hastily changing gear
revs his whining engine
revs and revs and
slowly burns out his clutch in the spiderweb
i can only be; being
i am confusion
moons fill like sails by fireglow
as she blows bubbles