Alas, I've found nothing to criticize/critique.The sun comes like a headthrough last night's turtleneck. A pigeon in the yard turns tailand offers me a card. Any card.From pillar to post, a pantomimeof damp, forgotten washingon the washing line.So, in the breeze: the olé of a crimson towel.the cancan of a ra ra skirt, the monkey business of a shirtpegged only by its sleeve, the cheerioof a handkerchief. I drop the blindbut not before a company of half a dozen hensstruts through the gate, looks round the courtyardfor a contact lens.
Keep it up!
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