( via / via )

"These items [fragment of bedroom wallpaper, antique shipping label, photographic negative, sand, dried blueberry, bit of handmade lace, page from children’s songbook] were stolen in the summer of 2005 from Martin Hägglund’s family’s summerhouse in Käxed, Sweden, which is in the High Coast region on the Baltic Sea." (via @thedaybooks.bsky.social)

"THE NARRATOR

I am the hawk-heart braced in the epic’s hero
Hollow and lit in a single follyless zone
Twinned with a dawn and a dark.
Graceless in gardens I hear my unvisited care
Squawk back at the sculptured cuckoo’s nursery rhyme
Chimed in the dandelion tower.
Eyelashed and petald alone in the shepherd season
I walk heaved high from the earth confessing the voice
That runs ever over the hour
Confessing the death without space for the laying of dead
The rudder and rocket stem and the murder swerve
At the tender right-wrong heart.
The hiccuping hero the narrator lindenward
Reels at the waltz with diaphanous water fronds
Telling his ribbed in vanity.
I worship a skylift of Narnain blaeberry globed
Priestlike sealed in a tensile sac in a nerve
In the vein-geared bubble of vision.
While whisper the tethered anemones under the grave
And the narrative sprouts from the bone-sweet skull
Telling a blossom to its bulb
And spins in a hollow of sound in the emerald dome
Tinctured vermilion and told in the glacier heart
That trades the unmapped spell along the blood.
The raven at larch time dwarfed in the calyxed chronicle
In my head’s helmet weathers no wheeling sky.
The banished bird spins no horizon.
Yet my eye webs the word. History in a bowl
Spreads out a firth for ptarmigan and the pedlar’s moth
And anarchy within a cage.
Who knows the rose or quotes her holy somersaults
Preached from a dangled spinner on a maypole thread.
What summer eyes perched deep within a dream
Could bring the god the child and the rose to speak.
What tongue like a stamen stemmed on a kiss or a grave
Is yet enchanted into form."

--W S Graham

ASCII bunny.

Social media are like having Edward-Scissorhands; it's hard to do anything precise or tender with them.

In Dickinson's letters.