Funneling to a point like the mold of an upside down birthday hat: Armadillos, my neighbor said, scratching a waxy ear. Little armored ones,
Walking through the green dunes on our way to Abbott’s Lagoon, I ask if she remembers the weasel we saw years ago here, running
What is on your clothesline? My red pajamas, my mother’s blue shawl, jittering with wind, wild as jazz, clean as a storm. Where did