“Black Dog Whelk Feeds on a Barnacle“: a poem by John Wedgwood Clarke
Lost keys run riot between desk and pocket leave me for dead at the door. I won’t be sweet: there’s a hairline crack in this sun-baked…
ByNew Times,
New Thinking.
Lost keys run riot between desk and pocket leave me for dead at the door. I won’t be sweet: there’s a hairline crack in this sun-baked…
By John Wedgwood Clarke