Thirty-Five: Roast Lamb, Part Two

I, golden tree, still, screaming, silent,
Palms stretched, weak branches as
Seconds flicker by, centuries of panic
Catching breath too late. Shock!
I am chanelling Penelope, wishing
I could untangle these leaves but
no. I must wait for someone else’s
sails to knock the wind out of me.

Rusty, I know, but I’m just pleased to be able to use my hands to type!


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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