With a sad smirk I count these thin
threads and scattered leaves. Can a
pale thing still be stitched. The fan says
tick tick at its apogee and
the mass wearies. I try and I tell
but there’s just a little breeze so
easily turned off I don’t want
to confuse or obscure, much, but
each character wants their own half-baked say
oh it's OK we know what we are
so why not own the joke and pity
the poor scholar with her rough lamp of
vegetable grease as she sorts lies from
poetry, black beans from bits of clay,
other animals 