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· ᚢᚦᚼᚱᚼᛒᚼᛒᛊᛒᚼ ·
ABOUT
WORD HOARD
Swelling timber beams squeeze out freshly hammered nails.
Passing piled stones the road reveals some rot of cottage.
Lungs drought baked draw dry breaths of dust.
Delivered from a crisis of common names, you ripen with the first blush of...
To hell with garden boundaries.
Fired soils crack as ancient stoneware.
You spend these quiet years unravelling.
The parlour folds.
Bone deep damp laps at walls and windows.
Buried beneath.
⇠ Older