upon mutability—if it were possible. But you don’t know me. Already you cannot conceive my making the second line of a poem so much longer than the first.
We knew the rat in the crawlspace was chewing on something essential. But who’d go down to set the traps? The house was ours—wasn’t it my duty to protect it?
The beautiful athletes on the white beach work out in unison for the camera this morning, their muscle clothes the colors of berries, of bright flags and fields growing,
The feast-huddle explodes when I approach, a gray fox remains, whitening to bone. The risen wait in the limbs above for me to glance the marker, pass on.
