Spiny HitchhikerStringer, A.E.
County Roscommon, Ireland I picked you up on the outskirts of the forest beyond the castle ruin. Nothing yet explains those green emanations, delicate, barely able to tickle a baby’s palm, so manifold from the red core that you rolled like an odd ball off the dash’s vinyl. For kilometres, you rode alongside, hooked to the fabric of the seat, stoic at my petty broodings, devoted to the trance of scattering seed. In polar examples you counselled me: be still, by all means move along. Tell no one your name. Copyright A.E. Stringer 2009 |
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