( me / via )

The Death of Keats.

Random # 239 = 458 in base-7; 4 + 5 + 8 = 17 lines

outrunning Covid
in the cool early shower
with the capital-exile grief of Ovid

sky livid
streets a tesselation of Escher
outrunning Covid

forager-avid
genocidal erasure
with the capital-exile grief of Ovid

to these tiny figures perfervid
glimpse of shore
outrunning Covid

with tomorrow's knives gravid
with voidshare
with the capital-exile grief of Ovid

spend our seasons outrunning Covid
with the capital-exile grief of Ovid

Pumped Up Kicks.

"a smudge
of blackbirds swirling
into evening ...
how fluid the shape
of this sorrow"

--Debbie Strange via @ericcoliu

"All of these artists are now dead." (via @mcrumps)