the spiders are like young girls,fiddle-dee-dee at the maypole. there were spiders forming less than geometric webs,dangling half-hung. how the Continue reading
how the wind lofts each pretty spider ever skyward to where,he might,I might,play among hawks,on drafts over our carcass home.
the spiders are young girlsfiddle-dee-dee at the maypoletheir skirts, their folds their pleats their smooth,but weaving less than geometric websask Continue reading
the seashell whispers shame in my ear i shook its tenant dead. the rigging’s still at its shudder and one Continue reading