Tinker on the falling sill, craters fleck the washer’s hoe, broken under the hasty brow. Trucked into the mouth of drain souls, the arched sounding-board of the atmosphere takes credit at its foot, and never places an even dime on the ring of Matterhorn. My will be turned in the handle of the pit, and look out for me in the rainy dust, dregs of the summer cup, pinched and blown into fealty’s screw deepened, tapping into the abyssal rim.

2023/03/26 #DailyCreatedOOM