Xylophone They watched the river go by composing, it gave no signal the night had ever let its lips loose. Under the bridge, the slip stream xylophone tones about the Navy,
The mathematics of creasing In the café you ate nothing and told me you wrote your PHD on the mathematics of creasing. To make it easier to me you explained that it wasn’t
She’d been sitting On such pretty hot days she sits and makes lists. Out her box window, she watches the café, the bent backed couples, coughing up quiet lettuce,
He looked like a child’s drawing of a man; too much brown crayon. His milk bottle legs poked out from underneath his too short trousers, the snail trail scars on his shell fists,