the roof into the bushes,
a kind of politeness.
That shadowless bright,
all leaf-fire and hisses.
Nothing enters into it.
Nothing passes through.
Bird song like a radio
playing in a far room.
Telling: Streams & Logs
the roof into the bushes,
a kind of politeness.
That shadowless bright,
all leaf-fire and hisses.
Nothing enters into it.
Nothing passes through.
Bird song like a radio
playing in a far room.