we gotta get to the flower
a bud chock full of ambition
spaghetti dinner prices
where the pepper and salt is all that you
can bite.
we gotta get to the four
horseriders of the hyacinths,
sniffing the breeze like bees
from their nest stinging you in the ass
like jackets full of nettles.
we gotta get the flour
mills spinning wind chimes out over the horizon
wolf howls be damned if any drip of snow
will fall and then the tracks lead to
lichen covered ice lodges.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment