a summer that will end
takes up so little space
like carrying flints
as all the other mischiefs braid
in the downfall of bitumen
in the afternoon of the human
fireworks ply the welkin
our small faiths don't refurbish
i scrawl in Elvish
epic like misshapen gherkin
an end to summer
"Poems should echo and reecho against each other… They cannot live alone any more than we can.” —Jack Spicer via
Pretending to be a 6-foot bird so an orphaned baby doesn’t imprint on humans.
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