a sense of you lingers
as i sit here alone
with my words, and books
and tragedies of conscience
but that sense of you, a light
drag of your careful fingers
caressing a lingering memory
whose words blur and shiver
because i'm with you
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for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
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the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
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