The oiled sliver of steel stripes
my wrists with swelling, hardening tissue
Moths that batter the porch light
flutter down and drink
Until their wings
Are a spotted, rusty
red.
YOU ARE READING
Grayspace
PoetryThis project is the author's exercise of methods using automatism as either the finished product or the basis for stories and poems. Nonsense, jarring images, and peculiar journeys woven from the stuff of dreams await. You might laugh. You might cr...
