the ghost of Hamlat's father.
Shuffles & tug & yawns & spits.
Like a steeplejack he itches weirdly and continually.
Dances on his grave plot.
Prophetic flame at the wiped lip.
The fouls go by him like tracer bullets.
Writes runes with his toe, healthy spells.
Like an Aeschylan trageds he's static; baffling;
Boring; but.
Urgent with importt.
No comments:
Post a Comment