Slogging it with more stick than can shake a stick so we’ll take four, (how about it mister?), shake them at the washer, at the dryer, and the smaller things; then we’ll raise the whole foundation, stilt the house up over a flood plain or two, struck with stick after stick, with direct hit after direct hit, made to trudge into a mood; or to crawl through inundation and feel only relief. There’s nothing that’ll make peace like a little street fight with the bells. Impact is bogged by hard water and wet onion grass. You can almost taste the mercury rattled back off the bells as it springs past your face and towards the basin. Vanishing dust; dust before birth.
More about: Christi Annu Ali Vyianna
