No words of silence are worth the spacing between organized lines nor are they worthy of being considered as a range of possibilities rather they are totally inaccessible and ‘us’ at the same time of the kings of posing and smelling our father the sea in a mix of salt that might make us recollect the scent of a British back street and the soft breathing of a week-end on the coast on the edge of a box far too tight for our strong feeling and sensitivities arise before this time of length and latitude of spirititude protruding upon our walks under the old sun. Sigh.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment