There is nothing
about trees,
but wind.
Rushes of
clickings,
rustlings.
Sounds
feel cold.
Close to
noises.
YOU ARE READING
n a p k i n s (under construction, details inside)
PoetryA collection of poetry over the years. Just "napkin" writings (short and random thoughts)
viiii. interrupting crooked lines (edit to be moved)
There is nothing
about trees,
but wind.
Rushes of
clickings,
rustlings.
Sounds
feel cold.
Close to
noises.
