Talking About The Past Is

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

Life Begins To Happen. My Hoppped Up Husband Drops His Home Disputes, And Hits The Streets To Cruise For Prostitutes

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.