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.