November 30: Eye

My left eye twitches involuntarily
so foreign to see the eyelid on my face
a part connected to my bodily surface
move of it’s own accord

not even asking the brain
for permission. The muscle
that controls opening and closing
jerks in defiance of wakefulness.

But the muscles cannot override the lid
down towards the dark pools
below. They can only exert a tremor
willing the eye to dip

behind the eyelid, a physical sunset
that won’t take place until
long after my side of the earth
has rolled over in it’s bed of sky.

November 29: Thanksgiving Swan

The decoys were packed
The pond left behind
The sled pulled behind
The man and his children
On foot when the flock
Of swan appeared. With
The twelve gauge cradled
In his arms he looked up
Anticipated their trajectory
Heard them hoot as they flew
Into range. The children cheered
Shoot! A swan dropped
From the air. As he fell,
His heart pumped for the last
Time, giving him one extra surge
Of lingering life. He locked
His wings and began to glide
Away from his shooter.
The man and his children ran
To catch the falling swan.
The littlest child was almost left
Behind, her little legs pumping.
The swan swooped down
Onto another man’s land.
The man and his children
Forced to surrender the swan
To a private property, another man’s
Table, their mouths salted
With the taste of bitter success.

November 28: Sunrise

A cloud in the morning hovered 

Against the silhouette of black 

Mountain. Sunrise light 

Captured, illuminated the cloud 

Lit it like a flash of lightning, stained 

The sky, called me outside.

The back yard was drowning 

In a 365 degree view of cloud waves 

Caught by the sunrise. It came 

To remind me to say hello 

To the Earth, to remind me of a man 

Who told me he says hello as he leaves 

His house every morning to the tree 

He planted when he was a boy. 

He acknowledges the shrubs, he has 

A conversation with Mount Olympus. 

He told me the Mountain is part 

Of the Earth and the Earth has a spirit 

Like ours. He told me the mountain 

Makes you feel something in return

A pin prick beginning deep inside 

Your chest growing as it pushes outward 

You feel something in return. I stood 

Outside in my slippers thinking 

About the lure outside, ripples of clouds 

In the still blue morning ocean. I didn’t 

Say a word, couldn’t see the mountain 

Black shadowed giant. This morning 

The sky greeted me. My eyes heard 

As loud as a foghorn, the sun rolling 

Across a sea of condensed water vapor.

November 27: Trees

People are like trees
Their bark, firm rugged
Immovable stubborn.
Their trunk, like a breathing stone
Holds so still while it reaches
Beneath the ground. Their leaves
Weeping willows sweep
The neck of the earth
The blow dryer force wind moves
Through their vines, a wild
Hanging coif. Some have pine
Needles, pointy and prickly
Each branch laden with a family
Of green Porcupines, their outer
Protection against the wind.
Some have pinecones,
Extensions of their solid base, hard
As their bark. Every tree
Is a different person. Their face
A different creation of God.
So many characters, infinite
Faces emerging from the same mold,
So many trees blown in opposite ways,
All reaching below the surface, digging
For life water, sucking fresh or rotten
It doesn’t matter they devour
Any stored provision wherever they stand.

November 26: Betty

We lost you not long after your wedding.
There were pictures of your honeymoon.
You were standing under a waterfall
In a bikini and cut off shirt. They say
You started to make strange comments

After that, as if your mind had been plucked
From the present and re-situated
In your past. The ability to swallow
Went first. You choked on water then words.
You forgot who your husband was, but I like

To think you remembered me when you smiled.
Once I walked you to your bed, our hands clutched
Into one fist. You got a feeding tube not long
After that. When we undressed you, a smile
of achievement crossed your skeletal lips

In the mirror. You never grew old
When it was just you and me, it was
Always bran cereal and bananas
For breakfast. You used to let me dress up
In your costume jewelry and sequined evening

Gowns. Even the disease could not steal
Your vanity. We all flew to Washington
To say our final goodbyes. You’d been trapped
Inside that withering body half my childhood.
It was the first time I’d been in a room

Alone with you since I was seven. I knelt
By your hospital bed and prayed. I wanted
To believe your semi-vegetative state
Gave half of you to me and half your consciousness
To God- that you saw the afterlife and me

At the same time. I promised
When I died we’d be together. You died
A week later and visited me. We had
Breakfast together, the healthy bran cereal
Kind. I feel you from time to time

I dream you when I sleep. I like to think
I’m your favorite, your soul grandchild.

November 25: Awake

He’s the first one awake
Before sunrise. He’s the first
Whose eyelids grow heavy
At night. In the morning
He turns the thermostat up
I can always find him
Lying in front of the largest vent
In the dark talking to himself,
Quietly whispering the things
Little boys say when no one else
Is awake. Only I see him
In this state beginning his day
In secret conversation when
He sees me he’ll tell me
About his dreams: he was flying,
He was walking with dinosaurs,
He invented bionic wings.
I’ll ask him to make me a pair
Next time he dreams
He’ll say there is no design
I could grasp.

November 24: Cat

Come Cat and we will call you
Saint Laurent. You will need
no longer nap in the grass.

Come Cat nap in our barn
consecrated for you. You make
no sound Cat, but I know you

want to be ours. Join our priory
the order of chickens and rats
we need a guardian of the gates

to the Otherworld. Arch your back
and follow us in silence. We have no meat
to offer you a blood sacrifice. Potatoes

will not do either? We offer solace instead
we have a wood chapel, a vaulted ceiling
a place to nestle among the smooth boards.

We offer sunlit windows and a cool breeze
through the rafter tips. An intricate dust
sanctifies our barn as a place of hunting

and sleeping. Why do you meow outside
our kitchen door? Come to the barn.
We have dry and wet kitty food

in our cat sanctuary. We said a prayer
you would track down our rats. Come Cat
you can take a vow of silence, make yourself

a crypt of rats below the stone pillars
your private mausoleum and we will
throw you food and applause.

November 23: Pumpkin

The kitchen smells
Of spice cloves
Nutmeg cinnamon ginger
We eat them
Throughout the year
In apple butter
Apple cider
Oatmeal
Muffins and bread
But the true marriage is spice
To pumpkin joined
Once a year
As we prepare
The pumpkin’s marriage
Feast the butter
Has been cubed cut
Into flour rolled
Into a glorious cold disk
We planned this meal
In May we pushed
Seeds into the backyard
We waited and watered
Watered and waited
Until the vines turned
Hard and wheat colored
The pumpkin adorned
Our table September to
November we adored it
Always knowing when
We were most grateful
The pumpkin would be severed
The brain scooped
The seeds separated
Boiled and roasted
The skull roasted
On it’s face, stripped
Of it’s skin and beaten
Into a heavy pulp
We’ve been staring
At this pumpkin eating it
With our eyes
The pie once devoured
Won’t satisfy
We’ll be craving
Pumpkin pie till May
Till we bury the pumpkin
Offspring like a sleeping child
We hope to raise
From the dead

November 22: Las Vegas

I am a clay tree losing her leaves.
I live in a cave, sand on my lips,
where is water? In the darkness
I am transparent, electrocuted
by the current of the sun, anticipating
movement, aware in my imagination
of the false portrayal in the mirage
of water. I bathe and swim
in the expansive lie, relax, be still,
caught in the act of admiration.
The destination is a buzz
in my ear it amplifies
as I move closer to sky.

Telephone pole currents like slimy fish
run from worm to worm, hooked
in the hot deep static of being.
Below the pavement with its deep
rough grooves of text wait for the El Camino
to walk its tires and read. The pen
abrupt draws stripes across the shirt
of crows that live on the wire,
that cough up crickets in their dreams,
roughing their throats. They birth
hot putrid signs that smell
my mild nature and beacon.

I take the Joshua tree home, and arrange
his branches like a bowl cut. I strangle
its durable trunk as I look for the crevice
where the lizard burns inside him. In the womb
of the tree he scales the waves of heat,
consumes the dust as he bakes. The little
climber melts into something new and flows
out of the tree. I hold him in my hand
as he undulates to the crest of my fingers
and becomes a little boy. I am barren
and cauterized. I feel my nerves
teeming on the edge of the dashboard
headed to Vegas.

November 21: Insecurity

Everybody’s talking to someone
I’ve never been good at chit chat
I try to look busy on my phone.
I want to call out, where’s the reader?
Which one of you is the author?
I want to buy your book, but
I don’t know your face. Instead
I look up your image,
realize you’re not here.
I look up biographies
of the people in the room
make use of the pocket
computer when social skills fail.
It must be an overly exquisite need
for a sense of belonging
that compels me to feel
solitary every time I enter a room
full of people. I might be thinking
who didn’t love you enough
to make you feel this way? I answer
myself, it’s you the stranger
I never got the courage
to speak to. Nah, that’s just insecurity.

November 20: Strawberries

When strawberry plants’

Leaves are red

And the last few vines hang

Unable to root themselves

Before frost when unpicked

Strawberries wither like freeze

Dried fruit on the vine

When there’s only a few good

Ones left, red and firm

They’re a day or two overripe

Just the right amount of extra

Sweetness when the strawberries

In-between shriveled and extra

Sweet deceives the eyes

Before they’ve separated

From the vine, looking red but

Once plucked turn white

And pink transforming into mush

In the mouth overly sweet

As if the roots kept pumping

Sugar into them, not knowing when

To stop, the time to harvest is past

November 19: Planes

Each plane I embark is a womb.
My heart changes vessels
When I am gone from home. I smell Lavender
And cats in Oregon, sand in my toes
At Long Beach, my first taste
Of corned beef and cabbage in Virginia.
I see drama and culture in Cedar
City and hear the sound
Of my voice when I workshop.
I see quiet in every place
I’ve visited. A cousin takes me to the Mall
In DC. I’m the same in every situation.

At night I push my daughter
Away for trying to sleep horizontal
On my bed. Move over rover.
I hang on the edge of the bed
Morning comes early. Don’t you love
The bat wings hanging from my eyes?
The picket fence mother of fecundity
Puts her flock to graze outside the yard.
My little girl bleats my name all night.
Asleep in a guest best I still ache
For her kicking. I will travel

To the land of quiet next year,
Then one more time, the year
After that, and again and again.
I board the euphoric plane.
I bring carry on only
For the journey of no end.
Hakuna matata. The plane sings
To me. I love looking through the oval
Window. Rays of sun laser
Through the clouds below me, as I wait
To descend through the cloudy gate.

November 18: Pianist

The pianist couldn’t read music. I could 

Read the fear on his face when a line 

Of notes stared him down. He knew 

Each distinct sound of a b c d e f g 

Major sharp flat. How pleasant the sound 

Of a planned life. Few are improvisers

Most want the safety of another 

Composer’s melodies carefully written out. 

Performers envy the composer’s genius

Their ability to create sound coming 

From within filling the empty chest. 

Careful planning equals mistakes equals 

Diversions along the way. Planners don’t 

Ride the music like he did, let it take them 

In any direction. Planners follow 

A predetermined course, that doesn’t sound 

As fulfilling as the feeling his playing created

Of right time, right place, right here.

November 17: Cold

I'm thinking how
can I get out
of this room.
I don't know where
to go. I need
to get outside. Rain
for two days.
It's decided.
I will get wet
maybe soaked.
I accept
the imminence
of cold.

November 16: Transformers

Each morning you wake abruptly with an agenda
                                 and scuttle into my room.

I pretend to be asleep as I listen to you
turn on the heat, making transformer
sound effects while you warm your little body.

I lay in bed and imagine the next hour.

I will ask if you want cereal, and you will proudly request an eggy sandwich
                                   so you can get big and strong.

You are so attune to growing
                                   tall, healthy, strong, like a transformer.

You’ll leave the crust on your plate and I’ll try to coax you.
You’ll leave the crust and I’ll say, you’re not ready

until you brush your teeth. You’ll whine, growl, scream
I don’t want to! But you’ll walk to the sink

as long as I’ve got my eye on you. When you brush
                                    the foam will drip down your chin

you’ll contort your wrist to get to that unreachable side

and I will remind you to spit before
your toothpaste lather drips. You will run

out of the bathroom and beg to watch Optimus Prime
In your cardboard box transformer suit. The one

I cut for you. The one you decorated in smeared
glitter glue, crayon, marker, pencil, paint. A new
daily decoration for your armor.

I lay in bed and wonder if you would believe
you are stronger braver more heroic than Optimus.
You are real. You grow a little
daily, I watch you transform to the tall
healthy, strong man you will someday become.

November 15: Shy

Being alone gives the sense
Of something delightfully stolen
Displayed for the taking, a guilty
Pleasure gobbled behind closed doors
A house full of time
Unencroached by people who need

To consume hands on the clock, who never need
Stop. The chirping conversation disrupts my sense
Of being, a personality stolen.
The flavor of that moment tastes so guilty.
I watch insects’ metamorphoses through doors
Of disdain, all they need is time

To grow wings, to flower, only time
Will tell if they grow beauty. I need
To be complex like a chrysalis, have a sense
Of transformation that doesn’t feel stolen
From a sitcom. As an audience I’m guilty
Of hiding behind the back row with a back door

Escape plan. I wouldn’t dare use the front door
To Enter into an unused time
When people were direct, when the need
For transparency overrode the itchy sense
Of vulnerability once stolen
Irreplaceable. I let the seeping guilt

Soak through conversations, guilt
My fingers that I’ve shut the door
On. I forbid anyone to give the time
Of day, even when I need
Someone with a better sense
Of reality, who doesn’t look at stolen

Pieces of the mind as if they were stolen
Artifacts of an unloved life, coated in a layer of guilt
Each relic tucked between doors
Reinforced by blame. This time
I can’t help but need
Text to gain clarity, a sense

Of the stolen life starved for social time,
Written in hieroglyphs on doors barricaded by guilt
I gulp, can’t fill the need to make sense.

November 14: Magic

I figured it out
this magic trick
and how I’m going
to use it on you.
It’s inevitable
the way you talk.
So many times
I’ve talked back
into your rope
cutting my ankle
and felt myself ashamed,
hanging from a tree.
I always thought
the remedy lied
in convincing you
not to set those traps,
but the man
behind the eyes
cannot be reasoned with.
Using a little sleight
of mouth I’ll stay
unconquered. You see,
I’m going to stop
seeing me
through those eyes.
I’m going to listen
to you and take all
your complaints in
with a concerned look.
I don’t have to say
anything at all, you can have
a conversation with yourself,
I’ve tested this out,
you won’t even notice.
All I have to do
is stand mute and beware
of the conversation
in my head. I cannot be
your child looking
for approval. I must be
the casual friend,
kept at arms length,
your once a month
friendly acquaintance.
You see the magic,
have you figured it out,
the trick is all in the eyes.
You will see a daughter
and I, an old man.

November 13: Laughter

Humor is an oversized beach

Ball, shaking with the vibrations

Of laughter. Humor is trying

To roll itself into the house

Through large garage doors. It

Gets stuck in the small kitchen door.

It shudders between door frames

And its hilariousness squiggles through.

It rolls drunkenly on linoleum floor.

The mother of the house

Is calmly sitting on the couch

Knitting. Without looking up

She slowly reaches her needle

Over the arm of the couch

And pricks the shaking ball rolling by.

The ball oozes laughter

From its puncture as it happily

Makes its way down the hall

To meet the father

Of the house. He is frowning.

He is looking over his paper

Shredder. He reaches for the next

Paper without looking grasps

Deflated humor feeds it

To the shredder. The rolls

Of laughter fade under

The whirring, as its last laugh

Falls into the trash, ha ha,

                                             ha ha.

November 12: Bleeding Hearts

An invisible girl hides

Between two fences

One painted white, the other

Painted seclusion. She kneels

Before a brick planter

Her altar. She holds

Wanton treachery in her hand,

Pops the bleeding heart

Forces an exhale of shame

From the exposed ovary burst

From its cocoon. She bruises

The soft flesh as she mashes

The petals between her demure

Fingers. The blades of grass

Nestled beneath her salty knees

Melt into the ground wish

To explode around her in protest

Of the buttery blood she’s sacrificed.

She emerges healed

Stares at a mulberry tree.

She craves to be shrouded

Behind her own gate, latched

And locked in haughtiness.

She is maladjusted to amiability

Like a slug who leaves his trail wet

Smooth across the impervious

Concrete, she’s soft and crushable,

But continues reserved and alone.

Hers are the webs of sticky

Velvet string as she wraps

Her feelers through innocent silk

Worms. They try to breathe

Stay in continual movement

Resonate oxygen through their body

Scrunch relax like an accordion.

Their antennae reach for her

Key their bodies boil

Bubble as they wriggle.

They become grout

In her hand.

She is subterfuge. She is

In awe of herself. The insignificant

Grass slides beneath her feet

Like slippers. She thinks

She is justified in her pollen robbery

It shows in her delighted

Smile, the morose throb in her sun

Colored eyes. The blood

On her smells. She’s wearing silk

Worm earrings drained

Of their dignity, bound to please

Her heart lost between fences.

She runs like a rabbit

To the house. Inside mother

Is colorless, lays prone, strains

For qualification. She bleeds

Her heart until she hears the dread

Steps of her daughter.

November 11: Mother

My mother’s legs remind me
When she limps. I see the boat
Upside down as I bob in the current
Slippery wet skin. Fire smell
Fresh water in my mouth, roar
Of the boat engine. I’m calm
I know I’ll survive. Her bouncy
Walk bumps around my house.
The real Lesa is drowned
In a California Lake. We talked
Last week. I thought I saw a glimmer.
Inside I screamed her name.
My house quaked legs shattered
Heart crumbled. She is the overbearing
Stand apart mother of affectation.
When her teeth grind she relaxes.
When Anya is ornery I’m living
Up to my label. Slide closer
To me on the bench of adoration
Slippery mother. Remarried
Her wedding ring makes the burden
Easier, though it glares wearily
In my eyes. I see mom
The flesh of her leg torn open.
I cannot hear her, her smell
Gone, I cannot reach her. I am
Hungry for someone more.

November 10: Rain

Walk home in the rain
The kind that doesn’t
Just sprinkle but wets
You like the bathroom shower
Head the feeling of being
In public fully clothed wet
As if you’ve just taken a swim
Satisfying and strange
Your saturated apparel needs
No more explanation
Than the absent umbrella
You are free
To pretend you’re five years old
Again on the prowl for the greatest
Puddle where you will smash
Your feet into the temporary
Pool see how high the water
Splashes even when the drops
So big and profuse weigh
Your lashes as if trying to find
A duct become your tears
it feels so good say “let it all out
sky, don’t stop your ugly crying
thunder harder let your tear drops
bounce their way down
the gutter” when you get home
peel the heavy fabrics down
your body submerge your skin
under the shower head bury
yourself in the moisture don’t
come up for breath until the clouds
hiccup and you’re saturated
clean as the street.

November 9: Leaves

The sidewalk is paved
In leaves. I walk
On the rising yellow
Tide, lift my shuffling
Heels. There’s a crackle
In my ears. I can’t
Get over summer
Gone. The hills
Have been painted
Sunset for weeks.
Tree lined streets.
Red rivers of leaves
Weave down the asphalt.
Cresting waves
Chase after cars. I lay
Floating down the sidewalk.

November 8: Sick

He’s been exiled to his bedroom. He’s counting
The days 1, 2, 3, 4. On day five he begs to go
To school. We reverse roles. I tell him
He must sleep in and play with his toys till
He sounds like my child again. I don’t know
This docile pink cheeked boy whose chest expands
When he breathes the air sucks
Through the mucus. He keeps coughing
Up like he’s talking through a liquid screen.
He takes his vitamins, knows he’s never been
This sick. His room in warm and stuffy. Unreasonably
I worry about inhaling his germs, the little
Airborne mites of his breath might lodge
In my lungs and open their second mucus franchise
That boy has already built a nest in my throat
That scratches and burns and feels like home
And when he hurts I want to swallow him up,
Swaddle him in saliva and birth him again
wet, shiny, good as new.

November 7: Sisters

I have something for
Her I’ve been meaning to give

For a long time. I’ve tried to be
The one serving an olive branch on a tray

With trembling arms afraid to get bit
Sometimes even wanting to be her.

The game was on
For years both of us in the eagle’s nest

So dedicated to the lookout we couldn’t be
Ourselves, didn’t see a way to leave

The nest. There’s a mistrust in relation
To our perception on this ship.

We’ve been riding in
A loss of security

Drowned, sent over-
Board those sensitive

Planks, blindfolded to the friend
We both had on the ship.

November 6: Northern Flicker

A Northern Flicker called
Kyeer! Kyeer! So clear
Sound penetrated window
I startled from my afternoon nap
Pressed my nose on the glass

She perched on the white ice
Chest, sipped water from the cup
Holders in the lid. She turned
Her black striped back, showcased
Her long tapered tail, spun
Her black crescent moon chest
On the white catwalk. She hopped

To the grass, pecked for ants.
The little red plumed woodpecker
Called her mate. He ascended
the fence post, his black spotted belly
Puffed proud. They flew

To the barren fall garden to hunt
Among the patches of grass
They darted, zeroed in
On their prey. I stared, caught
Like a beetle between their beaks.

November 5: Veggie Tales

Veggie Tales: For the Love of Laura Carrot.

We should have left the carrots
        in the ground until first frost.

We planted too close together.
        We could have thinned them out

but we didn’t. We’re new at playing carrot
        architect. One of the seeds dropped

in the weed patch, discovered when we picked
        the festering mass, a red heirloom carrot

the size of a sugar pie pumpkin. The seeds
        who stayed in the garden grew curls

wrapped around each other, choking
        each other out. We left the tops on

stored them in buckets inside the little
        concrete box under the kitchen steps.

They stayed dark and fresh all month.

I can’t help imagining them in their dark
        box, bodies twisted together, an embrace

only the kitchen knife could sever,

        as if they knew we would eat them.

November 4: Quiet

I try to find the quiet.
Soft rubber plugs my ears.
The phone between my legs
pumps Chopin’s Étude
Opus 25 Number 12 in C minor
into my head. Chopin,
drown out the T.V.

It’s a competition between Planet of the Apes
and the Étude. The monkey’s roar
overpowers the climbing arpeggios. I practice
concentration,
                          focus,
                                      tune out the people.
I ask why the little girl is silent.
The answer, she has reverted
to a primitive state. I wonder

what music would sound like without words
to define the key. Thoughts would become images
without words. Words could not repeat
in circles around the black stage
of my thoughts, mocking my inattention. Instead
a silent film of fingers would sprawl up and down
the keys, erupting in tension
until the fingers resolve
on the final chord.

Though I leave the room, the words
on the T.V., finally a low muffle.
The washing machine door unlocks,
click click. The dishwasher goes swish.
The dog’s nails click clack on the floor.
I wear out Maurizio Pollini’s fingers with
Opus 25 Number 12 on repeat
until I can anticipate every chord
that anchors those tiring runs again
again the wave of arpeggio crests
and falls over and over and I try
to think in silence-to peel the sticker
of quiet and adhere it to the etude. It plays
so vigorous in my ears until
I no longer feel the cord connecting
my ears to the phone. Chopin
above the T.V., the appliances.
That song will not be silenced.
The final beats mock
up            up          up
     down     down      down
though no resolution is heard.

November 3: Hit

I saw you run past me I turned
to follow. I froze and watched
I saw the black and grey spotted dog
you were after. I saw his owners
walking with their three year old.
I saw the cream Oldsmobile slow
to wave to them. I stood on our grass
and watched you run into the street
like a puppy for the first time
in twelve years. I thought at the last second
you might make it. I pictured myself
breaking up a dog fight after you'd said
Hello. I heard your sharp yelp from
under the bumper. I was still frozen
it felt two seconds too long before
I ran into the middle of the street.
I saw my neighbor slap the cream hood
yell, back up! get off! I didn't realize
yet, the knowing, I'd left the gate open.
I was as guilty as the driver. I knelt down
next to you because you could not
stand. I came into your view
and involuntarily, your tail wagged.

November 2: Shadow

The sunset shines
A yellow lit window
Copied on the wall
I sight read the shadows
Wiggles of leaves
Bob like notes on a staff
North a cumulus grey
Build up drives the wind
South toward the house
The leaves wave more frantically
The last chords of leafy branches
Cling and ring like paper kettle bells
A few leaves forget to play their duet
They embark on a merry march
To the ground ready. . .go
They play a lovely wind
Has come to blow
The race to the rake soon
The Right Hand in the sky
Will throw white wet happy
Pills to melt on my tongue-
But not today today
The leaves are making music on the wall.

November 1: Mount Olivet

The deer of Mount Olivet Cemetery
are not afraid. Suspicious. The right amount
of distance maintained. Eye contact
before movement. One at a time
they stare head on, ears like satellites
positioned to capture my intentions.
Awareness of my presences infiltrates
their space. One by one they group.
Two cross their necks to whisper
in each other's ears, did you see
the human in the cemetery - is she here
for us or the dead? The people on Mount Olivet
maintain more distance. They make eye contact
with stones, ears to the ground.
I want to stare, observe
their movements as if they were a pack
of scattered deer. People spook
too easy. I am a nameless dateless tombstone.