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,
Tag: fan
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with the storm passed on her side the dog the
drone of the fan and what else may stroll through
this thickness what can save bruised fruit and/or
we should wrap this up before we all give
up again but let me start again itall just went so far no matter how I
tried part of me still longed to name a new
kind of apple the ragamuffin the
sesquipedalian splendor but Ican’t go back to that store anymore though
hope one day a corner of a part of
the mystery may but look the slow blueof one of my favorite skies I feel
so attracted to the clouds, those edges
other animals 