Tacey

She measures a distance beaten, by public telephones, across fields of blue wheat, she won't bathe in wine , isolated but not alone, lives by a water chime, a granny rolls up sleeves, like the book she holds, her rifle next to the sheets, what better cure is a cry, to surrender perfume soaked, a lover from old times, her drink is whisky neat, ravaged lipstick Eau De Cologne, she whispers her feelings, secrets like lemons and lime, flow from her garden wall, she doesn't care for time, carrying this load.