rob mclennan's blog
There, in my mistake. I am present. The present lifted over itself. A day like grout in the tiles suddenly brittle suddenly breaking down this pattern. A date you remember smeared in the pages of a calendar.
That was pleasure once. Sure-fit, needled existence and as the nerve brough forward a yellow seam in the silence. Silence thrust its burning face to the glass— that kind of domain. (“A WESTERN SKY”)