Bunk Richardson Poem by Jake Adam York
Bunk Richardson
The rope grips the iron
where the iron bites into its hold.
A noose of rust, dried blood.
The dew has frozen in its twines,
thicker near the river,
from which it's climbed
weaker and weaker, all night long
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
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4/24/2024 7:41:49 PM # 1.0.0.1119
