saw the blue dog in fabric this time.
it adorned a sock. an omen still.
wait. outside the water is heavy in the air
and it is fresh, cool, dark. streetlights
prick up the night. the night is wet but sprinklers play across fields
squares, triangles of grass. the sound
of traffic never stops. a whirr of a bike,
the hum of a car, air battered high overhead
by copter blades, or even higher, turbines.
Well, it looks like I've majorly lapsed on the poem-a-day habit. Not to worry. I'm taking a short break to finish the Balkey story line....
“What,” the young, scarred and scabbed Scib said, “did Mr. Pin calm him – Bixson-” And Balkey closed the gap as soon as the word left the...
Tell him Coral has finally gone sour and the Pin is as crooked as we all thought,” fryed Balkey and eyed the straight and tall, the...