Walkways – the poem – part 8 of 16

…. Paved paths, brisk storm of senses, an old opening, endless as a dug-in arrow – head in the weeping jungle, the coolness of autumn air brushing tombstones, the thin necks of geese. So much night in a single glass, body and name together, replacing existence with this inheritance and no other. Rows of ships … Continue reading Walkways – the poem – part 8 of 16