Air Bubbles
We meet at the shore, where white horses fling themselves onto the grit. The water is ill. Grey-green. Like the sea is a wheelbarrow in which some god is churning quicklime. I wish you wouldn’t stare at the sky like that; we won’t find any love up there.
Published by Tiny Molecules, March 2022
We meet at the shore, where white horses fling themselves onto the grit. The water is ill. Grey-green. Like the sea is a wheelbarrow in which some god is churning quicklime. I wish you wouldn’t stare at the sky like that; we won’t find any love up there.
Published by Tiny Molecules, March 2022