The Writers' Circle

Cold.







with gray-sky ampoules of rain

that like static- and smooth paper

runs




clasping sucking mouths searching for bitter libation
in the marrow that clings to run and sweat
beats the fat heart, ever harder



grayscale streets with passing feet
all mute and blurred like wet tendrils of cloth
that cling and beat with fat hearts and eyes





Tied to the axis of vendors of meat


........