Left behind by migration
I could only...
Here we are
standing on the...
I see beauty,
in this land...
Silvery tangles frame
a face spun with spider threads...
If I could build
a wall...
Miss King is fat
with flesh, flesh...
When Will It End...
As I look back on the winding road
with many a twist and turn...
Pack your clothes,
but leave an ironed shirt...
There is no warmth nor light nor sound
as I lay here, trussed up and bound...
I scrub and scrub
but still the blood pours down...
You said you saw me waving
from across the crowded bistro...