Sky Lines

A plane; a swallow.

On King Street

The Trow’s resuscitated – see the blackwhite gable draped along in hanging baskets.

The searsome sun seethes heathaze.

A crossmaker – Yesh’wa constructed th’means by which the legion stamped impeer’yul boots on his own people.

Where once I was I am no more – no longer does that me exist.

Lapped at by the coursing mirrored-sky.

Their lines stretch finite.

Gilt African.

The rails run.

The final days of Nefertiti’s childhood.

Pigeon plays his puff-chest charm.

I write; I drink; I’m passed through.

Whate’er shall I write next?

Verdant-vivid is the tall grass.

Th’waste rain-fall flows, fitfully free, unto sea o’er reams of language earth-born.