Saturday

glean




Enters her past tense. Close to its beginning . The voice ever . And between its cool. Choice to its furtive furrow. And the sow roughed up in the pen. Keep dark and moss covered, and lichen along the foot of the gate. Not a one one in sight and Nota bene belles-lettres to her fair penmanship.



This couche-tard is no supply drop in but the center's best western couth of the moutain range hugging its ridges to the
friend's clasp

Jill's worn her love bearings this latitude. A free geogrrapy opening the willowy

East and the ever pinioned and pioneered West.


No one held this love before you ~
____________________________________________On the edge of a heart-attack you held it ~