The many rotating like a storm, capital the white wash of late mail waves, seduced to my desiring canvas, plain pitiful or the friend i never had. ‘Aftermath heavy winds, dealing in Tchaikovsky, healing was the score.’ Bottled water wasn’t a thing, so longing for the clear, strained or knee deep, i drank from the returning stream of sustainability, watching the gathering blue skies. Fun was failing to hone in on where our crescent moon be left. Watching amounted to replay resting Tchaikovsky, or crave from the last water, our redeeming tide.

2019 Adam Blewett ©