Down below the Guildhall where we stuck categories on with a small gaping machine.
Sunshine as irritant. We crawled from the drinking club with maps of blisters pinprick red.
And everywhere the vicious silver bell music.
Sometimes along the heat tunnels blood shifted from the head.
Methods of unwaking. Skips full of slung lit.
Olden world.
ReplyDeleteDoesn't feel so old to me, Susan. Sometimes a decade has the breadth of a century
ReplyDelete