A wandering child finds a shadow-show:
watches the pale tarp contort the gloom,
where a story is painted by the loss –
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There I am, on the hardwood floor, peacefully cracked,
body broken in half like my Russian dollies.
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yes I feel like one of the angels in this duvet he says it’s like a fishnet like a Greek kind of fishnet with fish netted in the middle
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The morning is perfectly arranged
on gaping white circles:
soft silent eggs, the hues of strained smiles
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I’ve seen angel-dust sooner rust
‘neath the watchful gaze of starlight,—
