History shoves. I am whisked down Maudlin Street
In the crisp eye of the living noon. Women
With children pass and shake their heads.
Can't you see what he's strung up for?
I don't know, myself.
My self, I know, however. It wreaks
Horrible imagination, wrong times, wrong places,
Each pull at words sending me further.
Let's file it under 'not to be'.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
History shoves. I am whisked down Maudlin Street
In the crisp eye of the living noon. Women
With children pass and shake their heads.
Can't you see what he's strung up for?
I don't know, myself.
My self, I know, however. It wreaks
Horrible imagination, wrong times, wrong places,
Each pull at words sending me further.
Let's file it under 'not to be'.
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