Archive for all the stuff I call poems that I have written over the last 30 years and that I still continue to write, oblivious to the fact that they might be little more than doggawn atrocious in the eyes of those who might not know how to generate within themselves the bliss invisible.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Broken Country Horses
cottonwood and willow difficult for the horse, the rough living effect curled up on the red arrows of the sun, and somewhere a bird sang some kind of strange steel – abysmally
