Natalie SimpsonChump

Rode in on a one-man, laid lowdown, railed low rants in a tooth-space, whittled the moon away over the last lip of bluff, cloud rips rough strips out of sky, whistle rides out the hideaway wets the wind. From here to balmy long dilemmas, the road ruts and rattles, sock thick and leg long, a hay-worn jaunt.