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Rock sill -
by Craig Turnwall
A glass of 5:00am holy water
sunrise blue, even the trees are tired of not rest human contact;
houses are naked
I am naked
sidewalks are dressed in early aperture
I think of you, sweet
wisdom, where you hide to make hidden eye cones
passion fish
lone and afraid;
where this window leads me; thirsty cold;
hell thoughts of neck warm covers, sleep beasts,
Sunday phantoms of fathoms of recluse mind spaceness
where I go back to you; holy water.
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Craig Turnwall
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