Cold Valley

The fog shades a smooth stone bust then slips into rain my mind is well suited onyx shining edges the reflection itself * Traces of mist on an old window * The best part is grinding the ink down endlessly, filling my brush grey morning I first feel the mind as reflex * Bright and clear The end of Evergreen road is closed and crumbling away Bill McNeil’s red poppy resolves to be eaten alive exposed to a shaft of air between the flower and its flat glass- masterful * The black bleeds out from his beak in long tears, ink onto sopping head feathers slicked back black stiches on yellow powdered eyes aglow white speckles thrown onto autumn breast feathers a white field below