Those rising gods of cloud, possum-belly cream and white, that roadkill brightness (winnowed by rod & cone) I take like tea: necessary enactment of
How she wants the pleasure of the comb in autumn, brimmed with clover drops, a whole season of frenzy sated by the taste of
Some mornings we take fog too seriously, like a school bus strobing its route more slowly than by rote, more the pace of a