The machine
un-greased
creeks
like aged floorboards.
The fruit tree
reaches for
the brilliant sun:
its plump fruit
seeps juice
from smashing
the earth.
Neither have
backs or hips,
they avoid
those spiritual pains.
The machine
un-greased
creeks
like aged floorboards.
The fruit tree
reaches for
the brilliant sun:
its plump fruit
seeps juice
from smashing
the earth.
Neither have
backs or hips,
they avoid
those spiritual pains.
THE GHOST WHO SELLS MEMORIES 
So true and relevant
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