Last Score
So that all day he’s stared the mountain down
its myth of windowsill, followed by, live, sight
of an oak shaking as a fever into leaf, alone
So that all day he’s stared the mountain down
its myth of windowsill, followed by, live, sight
of an oak shaking as a fever into leaf, alone
It’s slippery, the little by little you’re left with.
thread of a peacock in profile
glimpsed on a chimney,