Evee

Your son has gone home, to his father, you fix a hi ball alone, sometimes we are lectured to, by impractical lovers, like what's happening with you, not that you wish to scorn, or believe tales of others, when they ask what you've done, crickets turn to glue, birds flee the heather, sing of global truths, you shake and hold your bones, whisper like a sinner, twist your useless comb, the moon fills your dome, brings yellow news to gather, tears are lachrymose, you are a strong women. wind starts to blow stuff their fines never one to roam, might have once been so, not like me to atone, did you raise your brow,