child holds so dear. And I'm just beginning to hear. Gone are the pathways. The child followed home. Gone, like the sand and the foam. Pressed in the pages. Of some aging text. Lies an old lily
The sun was going down behind the tattoo tree. And the simple act of an oar's stroke put diamonds in the sea. And all because of the phosphorus there in quantity. As I dug you digging me in Mexico
