the bitter taste of almost breathing

i rested on the handle of my spade and smoked. i witnessed a congregation of privet, solemn hemmed and so cuffed with berries  that even the herring birds, oddly black against the cloud, eschewed with cackles and coughs and with caution; such is tumbling rubbish on a breeze.   i worked a thread of wet tobacco from my tongue to … Continue reading the bitter taste of almost breathing