White omens in the sky making shapes of us. I decide to wear all my medallions at once. Found a snout in the basil plant. Who can blame. You, in the small frame. Glasses and longsuffering. I sent you a letter on the subject of broccoli. What’s another word for sacrament?
Summer séances spent welcoming a new ice age in hospital gowns. No one visits, and if they do, we stick ‘em. Having not been coordinated enough to find a new castle. Always the first to go. No sons or daughters come to sing hymns around. Unmothered in the off season.
A strange hand under a young chin. Most times, your dreamer is the enemy. I spend the night writing Westerns, answering yes and yes to true or false. I guess I need to live up to fatherhood. Grow my summer antlers. See how far the voodoo lily will stretch.