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by Andrew Demitt dedicated to Eliezane Moon 
Romancing the pearlsin shades of a half-lidded dreamer; spitting – up and out. It’s late. This ship’s lost its cargo – a pale casualty to the whims; nearly sublime, save for the one thin burn pressing its will into my cave - as ineffectual as a cabin-boy envenomed and drifting silently towards the Aegean – lazily cradled away in angels arms, leaving those last scribbled apologies to splash home in a pickle-jar. That’s optimism. << back to the content list of Gallery Three |
