What a hurricane. Gravitas. Wondering inside circles. All a sloppy walk. Space does not weave us, yet we grab aimless. A strange card flips. A hammer hits another nail. In the musty local hardware store a man crumples one last time. Sirens scream to cold window panes a clueless night. A whirlwind ensues billowing murky mind all and all it is a garden of neglected moss. The ceiling sinks in.The work has been undone. The work has not been done. GREGORY M

Wardships windswept shore to shore wornweather planks blood dripped in the knots wild all in wisdom’s wastes cool pigeons know passing over water scarred orbs warlds of mobs multimimetica the windigo of the mirror. Are your moraleaves graveworthy? These clothes have no bayonet holes so I wear away. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 7/28/2019