When the crow
lands, the
tip of the sprung spruce
bough weighs
so low, the
system so friction-free,
the bobbing lasts
way past any
interest in the subject.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad for life, mad for talking, mad for poetry.
When the crow
lands, the
tip of the sprung spruce
bough weighs
so low, the
system so friction-free,
the bobbing lasts
way past any
interest in the subject.