Ghazal of the Bullwhip — O at the Edges

Ghazal of the Bullwhip Who hears braided tongues lashing the glare still? The language of pain writhing through white air, still. Or herding cattle you pop and crack above the horizon, pastoral and flowing. But sharp, a sonic nightmare, still. You ask how love blossoms through decades and more. That look, a caress, the perfect […]

via Ghazal of the Bullwhip — O at the Edges

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