In Bruges: Red Brick and Windmills

bridges The kids, their teacher, sprouts and dandelions the aquarellist and a wet bicycle. Sit on the worm bench as bytes on the mainframe wiped pastel of a bright warmth with shades of red gray as I look down I find more than wanted for god sake, it’s the age throbbing you see and frailty, thy name is woman drifts in been mine for too long in nobis chesterland churches slender cobbled gothics and proud romanesques the decorum of acolytes and bishop blesses youthful virginity using gods eleventh finger prodding at my tongue Florence, Bruges and Ghent old cities of Europe contrast with gadgets life and hearts break fast