Tick Tock

The ticks I pick from your flesh have the verve of John Donne’s flea but much more adhesive with the fervor of Lyme Disease.   The garden’s a death trap, the primrose and forget-me-nots funereal and dungeon-breathed. Spreading composed mulch to conceal   the yawn of a hundred open graves I tire of myself and slacken almost enough to lie…

This content is for Basic Member, Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription and Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription members.
Log In Register