[ .wash.over,me. ]
out of door, the marks are lines now, running through the scalp, through the cloth, to the rushing skin, as the pulse harrows and hounds the purpose of the day, and as the clouds seed the ground, soaking through the fingers of grass and toes of roots, that are the seething earth, made of you and me.
© Bryan McLean June 11, 2010
078/100:2
out of door, the marks are lines now, running through the scalp, through the cloth, to the rushing skin, as the pulse harrows and hounds the purpose of the day, and as the clouds seed the ground, soaking through the fingers of grass and toes of roots, that are the seething earth, made of you and me.
© Bryan McLean June 11, 2010
078/100:2
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