Poetry
The Watchman Waves. The garage door Stutters open. It’s dark inside, dark. Grope for a switch….
Apples still from Kashmir pale pink in crates in winter’s market…..
Poetry
The Watchman Waves. The garage door Stutters open. It’s dark inside, dark. Grope for a switch….
Apples still from Kashmir pale pink in crates in winter’s market…..