my name is not important, but if you would like to hear it, listen
to the rain in december. my age does not matter, but if you must know
how old i am, look at the granite road paving remains at the gallowgate,
where public hangings were conducted. the timbre of my voice fades
against the stormy waves, and only the humming sound continues
to percuss their reflection. after all these years, i still learn how to lull
my expectations somewhere between the banks of dee and don.
but at least i know some useful phrases and places worth visiting.
so here i am, a forsaken word dweller on an unplanned weekend
getaway that never ended.
hidden pilcrow 