a long time since I have seen an unspooled tape on the floor growing up, my gingerbread kingdom, would often be riddled with the metallic brown linguine, of a dismembered cassette.
snail back curled and tourmaline. your infinite, soft stroked hatchings remind; bring forth whispered remnants, from another time. your dawn pavement, now faces an onslaught-
faces in the felled tree what was once a mighty oak, is now no more, than a mighty sadness, slashed and bleeding on the woodland floor. some weeks ago, a man in overalls
the nine ladies you are sleeping now. slumbering stones warmed by the sun, your mossed flanks tickled by the kiss of a fragile breeze. late with the dance of purpled night,
nightfall over Whitby night strung in shining jet, the outline of extinguished boats glimmering, in the moment, where the tide, graceful necked and headless, pours out into the more.