page 6 on the crisp edge i trys to sit 'til it's plain they's none. wrapping arms around can't do: they's too short... sliding i goes into the shadow. ~crowheart | Of course,The Fall. When I took the blame for every damn thing that would happen from then on. ~helen
| she sits in contemplation of poets' awful perfection, wishing to seem the dream, wishing more truth to mean that even the bruise remains part of the fruit it stains ~Ron | sculpting fragments, stories, enigmatics thrust into faces varnished brown sardonic -- recovering timetrees clutching bluebit leaves of children's eyes reaching still. ~susan |
|