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, October 4, 2013
29
My hair climbs the grape vine, hangs from the clothes line
Worn black shirt soft as moth belly
Less black now in the sun
I cough the hours of dust up
Fingertips and washboard for the stains time leaves
The maple turns and goldenrod flirts with Queen Anne's lace
No comments:
Post a Comment