I’m flying by the seat of my pants, improvising, inventing, throwing away and trying over. So much work for a few lines that might not survive past this month. The story unfolds before me. I did not know there was a key when I began and now that there is a key, I find a door. Will it be opened? What will I find behind it?
small song of the night in the shape of a key
burnished & older than raven it calls to release
find a silent door sullen with flaking paint