rock the sand into the old heave ho pleasure run-off down the estuary string ~ tide signs the stink mud with bait worm punctuation naked causeway ellipsis . . . to kent
rescue your exiled wonder from the glass prism of opinion faces and diode creations and look with it on the crazy reaching trees and the mad half parts of worms and see the black belts we buckled Mother with and the folding window walls we raised to tease Her with us and us with Her and to keep Her warm soil hands off our ignored origins so we might pretend to be more