for elke
of air they areand nothingmore
onethrough anotherfalls
it is a flightof glasswithin
no onewould hearhow they turn
upon themselves
it isto heara white
where that air isyour handwould go
to glazesummer
for elke
of air they areand nothingmore
onethrough anotherfalls
it is a flightof glasswithin
no onewould hearhow they turn
upon themselves
it isto heara white
where that air isyour handwould go
to glazesummer
© Blodgett E. D.