from which false weeds flower
and continually prairie out
but what will bear the fruit
if fruit be bourn again
way out on long nights
when the wolf sleeps in your lap
I feel such envy for you o moon
but listen here comes
mastodon mousey
man that horn still
stuck in the middle
of his forehead at
that attention-seeking
stage but in some books
it’s Christ the lord.
No comments:
Post a Comment