poem (the burning furrows)

Poem (the burning furrows)

But who is anyway he whiles away
painting at him whose very name
feels like meningitis and at this point
how about the bow and arrow episode
we were delicate things. I should drop 
a line. Telephone. After all I don't think
so. The devil about the house, yes.
was there caterwauling? or intricate
novels deserving of penalty, of rivulets
some plankton is floriferous dinner, 
Dahlia
forgot to ask questions. We all forget
the spoiled, the burning furrowed.


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