Here in the woods we measure our boredom with an inventory of our broken obligations to the rest of the world. No one is
Light in the wings, down to the vein, the honeybee’s plum and gold. Near a windowsill, the black bands dip like rags slipped in
Dear oscillating fan: The anticipation of your cooling swivel undoes me. Don’t we all wish to be motorized inside sometimes? My rotor just waiting