sympathetically, he ran into
the woods crying ‘lifelessness, lifelessness’
avoid the apple orchard, there are bees. myknees are scratched from rolling in the weeds, half asleep underthe trees. the thought of settling down is so naive.
the sound of a cough echos through hallways, pathways, alleyways, always touching onside or another. only silence responds, with an occasional smile in the clouds.
a sad figure lingers in a doorway, in a made-up country where there is redwood red dust in the air. cabins built of wooden bones to house the unbalanced creatures of the universe. someone made the tangled feathers of broken bird wings glow behind a pair of floral curtains in a lonely bedroom
callous thoughts directed through boxy cement statues. thought by some to represent unopened gifts from the gods. they remember themselves unappreciatively, as simple building blocks in a utilitarian landscape.
she sleeps in the museum. her personal mausoleum. white antlers and sea clocks. she will send out for you as soon as the storm is over.
cackling descends. can pigeons cackle? no small prey to be human, though no one has ever called him human. winter has reasons of its own, mine prevail.
but other times… I fail miserably.