Registry Of Deeds In The Philip

Sunday

It's like putting their hands caught in the mouth, as if it were yesterday the day the owner of every day, and tomorrow only a time clock that whispers outside and yellow. As if the pen had been out of ink and just draw circles and cubes in the hope of a patch. As if to be once and for all and not leave, so lonely, unmade bed and half dew drop on the pillow.