Flirt
June 16, 2009
On webs and moldy draw, these visions lift. A thing to flirt, a Thing of dirt. Waxing down after foot, creeped. Between your neck and that cold that cracks, this Thing exists behind veiled threats, to form your blur and spoil our bones…snapped…on distance it endures.
From wings of sleep, it floats. Your eyes are still…there.
This Thing. This ghost.
