The traffic went North and South He rings me to say he’s eating fried chicken on the motorway bridge with Martha, and I see her slick haired fl-flicking her lips
The horse in question Actually the horse didn’t question anything. Not the hills or the mud or the jittering man in the saddle. It kept pace like a metronome,
Celendine She appeared like morning, chin over the grass knots, clean skull wrapped in muslin. John and I sat down by the stream, stretching out similies,