Poetry

You were clumsy, they say. For a monk seems an unlikely way to be.

I don't believe this for a second. Neither do you. It's the dying, not the coming back, we doubt.

Too lots these lights. Bats can't do their gnat trick bit ...

That time keeps on slipping slipping slipping into the future isn't true strictly speaking.

And what did they write with their iron styli, what complaints carve into his scholar skin by order of the Emperor ...

When, at 1:00 am, our neighbor rises for his nightly ritual, plinks a bit ...

Hawk's hooked beak clips Rabbit's spine, clips her screech.

I dreamt not long ago a rattler come sliding through the grass slow as digestion.

This world is a garden fearfully made ...