Poem: Potions Number Seven

Clearing out the onion bag to score net gain of rustled skin. Valentine nails of fresh life found round crumpled blue, the drafted last in foolscap folds, shed layer on hold. A tiny flat with scabbed surrounds of gigs and bus booth shotted.   Obsession on a skating date, exotic scent from monied gentle hills, a pool to throw a stone to deep, how well … Continue reading Poem: Potions Number Seven