unsaid

the ya wn my f

lapping sleeve's re

pressed an aging k

nife re ceeds in

to it's out of sigh

t a frog c

rushed inside a so

pping leg wind de

parts' the robe

it was ,high shine

rippled cross the lake

your thighless dog b

arks in

Can you read the words

I have not written?

- Olchar E. Lindsann