sun sinks o'er yonder
past lower manhattan
& the harbor.
the fat red orange orb
atop the lady's torch.
it is stuck atop
evry pointy building
in the financial district.
a fat rolling orange
that draws lines
& bleeds luscious
sweet juices of warmth
over all topography.
the train sinks
below below
where all is shadow
& the sun's juices
do not run.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
words, noises & images relative to the oilcan press and its productions.
No comments:
Post a Comment