Frost on the ground,Condensation on the window.Maybe something brittlebroke along the way; I’ve learned there’s no such thingAs a perfect triangleAnd now there doesn’t seemThat much to say. Between seasons,Colours indistinct,Painted life in shadesNot quite of grey, No stone to be castBetween guilt and innocence,And now there doesn’t seemThat much to say. Water on the […]
Tea House: Interviews, Commentary, Reviews, Poetry & Prose