I’m sorry that I’m late, I went blind. I got fur in my eyes like some production of fanciful animal husbandry.
My collar looks like eggshells and I’ve fallen in love with a wooden fox whose paws winnow the clay fields. Every morrow I awake and read my dreams from crumpled newsprint and he carves our daily grind into the bedposts beside my forehead. So fortunate he and I: Our home is a small museum of labor.
Endless noons, emit time. All confliction. The soul, a fool aloof, sees through the wow-eye and charms the redder noon. Don’t nod. Be as careful as a tenet in these woods.
When wristbands become like body parts and our sparingly wise minds orchestrate new manners of procrastination, you know that it’s time to make plans and fathom a more productive way of living.
It’s getting dark, too dark to see.
