dusk
The cinnamon tang of ferns Clicks of insects like the freewheel of a bicycle Treetops afire Dying orange light
The cinnamon tang of ferns Clicks of insects like the freewheel of a bicycle Treetops afire Dying orange light
The walk Took me by A mottled stack Of bricks The place we found you Lying in a box
So shrieks the machine: “Treasure! Treasure’s here, just below!” A spade plunges into turf
I want to do everything He said Not realizing how impossible that was In the space of one lifetime