ollect calls from payphones， lost for words; has been known to sleep in the rear seat on the hard shoulder， the hazards ticking; is given to sudden floods of hope; still dreams of swimming pools， in sepia; can take or leave a life in shadow; will whoop out of the blue and surface on the landing， fork and spoon in hand， adrift of what the done thing was; doodles butterflies
on the envelopes of unread letters; travels happiest towards daylight and fancies pigeons; gets a kick inhabiting the third person， as if talking across himself or forever clapping his own exits from the wings. 长篇经典英文诗歌篇三 The Potato by Joseph Stroud Three days into the journey I lost the Inca Trail and scrambled around the Andes in a growing panic when on a hillside below snowline I met a farmer who pointed the way Machu Picchu allá， he said. He knew where I wanted to go.
From my pack I pulled out an orange. It seemed to catch fire in tha
