The road winds like a top.
They want to pass,
red hot candy on a slow curve.
My knuckles white around the wheel;
You glance back—
The muck from stables clings to your boots
but the stomach says no shower,
only lemon chicken in glossy bowl.
Chinese jumble wavers into
yellow sauce licked from fingertips.
My fortune is generic,
yours soaked in soy.
Rain-tapped glass and
I have no umbrella.
My bedside is piled:
Mary Barton Udolpho Eyre…
Vague business says you cannot stay
Fingers fly over keys,
de gozaro yo!
Down in the quarry,
I can hear you laugh
amidst the trees of Stevenson college.
- Hi all, another reminder that we have a brand new magazine up and running called GALLEY COLLECTIVE - same art and l… twitter.com/i/web/status/1… 3 years ago
- Hi all, it took an absolute age but we finally have a new magazine! Please follow @GalleyCollect1 for great art and… twitter.com/i/web/status/1… 3 years ago