My specs, taped up, again resemble repaired.
My shoes slant where the heel's been ground away.
The hubbub in the hills gathers its strength
at wax of the moon, thereafter trickles away.
What one of us has graven on her blog
hovers a space, not long; then's tucked away.
The headlines catch a scrimmage on the wing,
count bodies strewn, let nascent shove it away.
Once this was where the fleeing sought their hope;
it's our turn now to shed, hope slipped away.
Saffron moon at dawn i'd have you delve
as i do, now my car gets towed away.
Graywyvern woned among green emmets whose veng
incurred deletion, while they moiled away.
I hope your weekend was a good one.
"He taught me how to take apart an ant-hill and find the caterpillar of a Blue which had concluded a barbaric pact with its inhabitants, and I saw how an ant, greedily tickling a hind segment of that caterpillar's clumsy, sluglike little body, forced it to excrete a drop of intoxicant juice, which it swallowed immediately. In compensation it offered its own larvae as food; it was as if cows gave us Chartreuse and we gave them our infants to eat." --Nabokov, The Gift (tr Scammell & VN, 1963)
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