Writing

Writing came by in the morning. Settled itself down in the shed...

"It's much more purposeful, out there in the East." So I was told, in a whisper...

Flowers sprang up, busy as the news. Bitch had a litter...

"Where are chefs nowadays?" Sharpening their knives...

It would be strange, would it not, if summer followed winter. Strange as a disease...

You stand on a plinth. Your shy smile flutters...

I am on my knees. There are words in my mouth.