>Depression > The dog dashes pastWhat fills the basketOr the tall red binItself, a matter of timeBreaking morning lightOur hours so fast, soSuddenly ataxic. His clawsClanking on the tile floorNail prospective, withering son. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to email a link to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Related