Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

I’ll Pass

Bo Peep’s
gone spare.
In open air her
ram parts sell
at varying rates…
Their expiration
dates from
-twelve to
some Springtime
unheard of.
Her lair waits…
lush lintels
flushed deeply
to save sons,
birth order forsakes
fast the lost ones.

A Scribe in the Swells

There’s so little movement.
The swings becalmed on
chain-links, tired of endless
branches —
pruned arguments
go to ground with
not even a
rustle of grass.