of course it is not about you. you have to know this, like baby birds know worms come with mother’s return,

why is nothing i can do now. where it went. what that echo means, if anything

Fieldwizards and firetops. Wobblybirds on snowflowers. Chilled milk and chowder for the little prince. Mothercake for mumbled thanks.

being drawn back unlike a bowstring but down and in as water finds the lowest

a few hundred million dying days later he emerges into crazy

we were all talking, things taking shape as they do, when someone said, be desireless, like that is at all a thing people

first fruits hardly a handful, the garden

unspeakable dearth of nutrient the cause of the complaint, lack of the sweet titmilk of human connection,

does a king come ready– made, or doesn’t he emerge from a prince once a frog, and aren’t you

was all stupid. you weren’t that entertaining. i find it all only sad now, that