Fresh Produce
I.r.p.
This orange illuminated street
runs parallel to the backyard
Grandma
bony racehound summer
twilight.
Georgia fields stuck in a post world war
an L.A. alley at alarm clock four
with some screenplay writer
sulking on the floor.
Skeleton shards on a European shore.
Seeping over.
Slate gray Irish horizon.
From Letras Mania