There is no story behind it.
It is split like a second.
It hinges around itself.
It has no future.
It is pinned down to no past.
It’s a pun on the present.
Its a little yellow butterfly.
It has taken these wretched hills
under its wings.
Just a pinch of yellow,
it opens before it closes
and it closes before it o
where is it?
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A Date with the Muse: An Evening Of Pure Poetry
It was an evening of pure poetry, sans the usual frills – no cocktails and canapés, no blurb-laden speeches and sweet inanities – celebrating a lifetime of commitment to a craft that has almost become an esoteric cult in the age of the novel.
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