my head is dizzy, busy spinning and sprinting away from nauseating words, those sand dusts, buzzing with unctuous stickiness, dazzle my vision into twirls.
perhaps here is where we let things drop. Flopping the wet wings, rather, shedding them feathers away in swings, either, glide through the falling air hither, or cling onto tenuous roots of a heather.
3.27.2020
Ralph with Coffee 