I forget it’s not summer and
my sigh is heard on the moon and
reflects on the crowd of spectacular
spirits once upon a who I loved long
and ago and will wait only so long
before buzzing back to better or
beyond though I never had much or
succeeded with stories that seemed so smooth
for other faces but what I mean
is the sun gets sick of all this rot
so here take this half-quarry and build
without instruction or sleep or slap
up the usual hiding hut with clean
paper and fresh pins for lines post-collapse
other animals 