Days of Wine and Roses by Chris Athorne
Days of Wine and Roses Late summer listening to jazz; the windows,open, tempt in a piece of the night,a coptering whir, burr of dusty wings,a flick-book rainbow, all the colours of music; but stopped, hid in some unlit niche. Next morning, moving chairs, there’sa dull dart beneath the sill. Don’t tryto pare apart the rigid […]
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