II
My prose lives shy and crooked in a lined burrow… like a wounded animal. It watches the passing of the camel train on rainy nights, doing three solitary dance steps. It winks, as lovers do, and villains. My prose itches, like a bald sweaty head covered in termites. But it lives, even though sequestered behind thick monastic walls in a strange sunlight. Now and then, it is allowed out for a walk on the premises.
My prose lives shy and crooked in a lined burrow… like a wounded animal. It watches the passing of the camel train on rainy nights, doing three solitary dance steps. It winks, as lovers do, and villains. My prose itches, like a bald sweaty head covered in termites. But it lives, even though sequestered behind thick monastic walls in a strange sunlight. Now and then, it is allowed out for a walk on the premises.
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