Like scarves that have run and bled all down the beach, rows of them under the violent sun where the dog noses its way
Like scarves that have run and bled all down the beach, rows of them under the violent sun where the dog noses its way
Stinging over and over like the miracle of loaves and fishes, they snarl out of their aerodrome, hell’s own angels with little venom sacs.
A Blue Morpho, sable and teal, velvet powder flocked on pinned, flightless wings. A monarch, burnt umber and ebony, preserved in a permanent hover.