Oh anyway it’s not the small desires that eat you up. Those things half-criminal with joy—a tall man’s rakish hair; the wet teeth of
C’est l’heure, little wren little shadow on horseback, wing of black hair, little Vivienne. C’est ton pere— like a bell being rung: C’est ton
A girl spills out of bone thin as birch startled Her voice turns the bowl on its edge Watch for eggs in the snow