The worn sole of the moon.
The haggle of the afternoon leftovers in
A slapstick of terror = graffiti umbrellas.
A giggle of blood reaches out for the
Unbuttons its curfew elevators.
Between nonsense and fury,
Joy draws straws.
Daises ring ring ring the
Stretching bells of our assumptions,
Like death and the color of sails.
2 thoughts on “The Worn Soles of the Moon”
I don’t know what this means, but the leonine rhymes and colliding images are lovely and will bring me back. Thanks.