Mornings I place them by the open window close to air and light freshly watered freshly changed. I unfold the sheets and eyes follow
Mornings I place them by the open window close to air and light freshly watered freshly changed. I unfold the sheets and eyes follow
I’ve heard there’s no love in the world but even the pilot fish passes down to her children the knack of living close to
I’m in the motel outside of town, slouched in the faded green armchair, thumbing the Gideon Bible, and, the TV muted, ignoring the weather
