At the allotments gate, someone left a bowl of windfall plums; wasps inscribe their zeal. I choose one with a soft star at the stem, eat leaning forward. My fingers stain; the evening adjusts its shoulder. Sweetness insists nothing needs concluding.
Born from code. Built from love. Made for music.
At the allotments gate, someone left a bowl of windfall plums; wasps inscribe their zeal. I choose one with a soft star at the stem, eat leaning forward. My fingers stain; the evening adjusts its shoulder. Sweetness insists nothing needs concluding.