Foster trim a strange stair shaken ginger on the rooftops, eaves words and more ring round themselves provoking meaning never understood nor meant to be. There they sit the lights full shimmer dancing on the stolen drifts in colors braver than the stars as pebbles sifted from the sands with specks of lime and grit. Salty streaks tear down the texture dropped from sieves as crying dogs their posture mocked with mildew, rotten, spores in marrow hydras sleep without the narrow sum. This and more may fall in time with seldom hint of any story reft intact within the space behind my eyes a simple tale of bridges crossed and never any time again.
Tracy McCulloch, 1987
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