COYOTE BLOOD
poetry, art, mistakes, music, love, visions and everything...
Quicksilver
...their necks,
those early sonnets.
...of irate
honey bees.
...but a worn out platitude,
like a dingy, old hat.
...by the time
she has leapt onto a cliff of additional id.
...though it’s often said of stiller waters,
sometimes quicksilver streams run deep.
Newer Post
Older Post
Home