Found Poetry: The Value of Old Notebooks

Her blood – tar treacle.

A pump runs on mute,

enchurned in inner workings,

warped in yearnings

glossy-small or rough-large.

 

Where do the butterflies of summer alight?

Why do we always mention their gossamer twinkle

and do nothing about it?

When will it be my turn?

 

The moment  passed.

So long ago.