…. Underguard. Crumbled tissue in my mouth. A crazy way to run – hands in pockets. Forward without, undeterred by reality. Plywood I am keeping for emergencies, for days when putting on the brakes just won’t suffice. Speeding, retreating, torsos twisting beautifully in anticipation.   I used to make mortar by hand, no machine to … Continue reading Walkways – the poem – part 7 of 16