This is what happens when artist living in two very different areas of the US begin to spill out their art without looking at each others. If you see patterns it is because of your life, not our lives.
Friday, September 6, 2013
11
The morning clings to the grass and my eyelids heavy and damp.
Moth-eaten glory yellowing time's teeth.
Webs unraveled and restrung in the corners.
Harvest moon fingernail slides down the jutting spine of ancient mountains.
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