There is a certain, tragic
irrelevance in the violin,
unstrung in its case,
and the black stomach
of the valaise, behind
my gardening shoes —
dry red clay sloughed
from their soles.
Image: Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Poetry by Devon Brock
There is a certain, tragic
irrelevance in the violin,
unstrung in its case,
and the black stomach
of the valaise, behind
my gardening shoes —
dry red clay sloughed
from their soles.
Image: Annie Spratt on Unsplash