TristeCharles W. BaileyThe BureaucratsThey are pencils, starting sharp, ground down each day between grey file cabinets, never knowing the hand that writes with their numb bodies slowly as the hour hand goes by.
TristeCharles W. BaileyThe GullsYou forgot to remove his hands still stroking your breasts in slow circles like gulls, white bellies tight, as you so naked tried to light a smile.