As you read these words, I lie lynx-like. I lie lynx-like in prairie sage, in a phase of abstinence. The yelp I trust is periodic; I have it from the mouth of an honest woodcock. A wild idea, or so it seems, to let go of venery. For all my lithe, I am not averse to buds, the spice bush; the tongue, per se, by which I forage is a nuisance. It melts. Becomes earmarked. In its stead, I self-devour.…
L.S. KlattApril 29, 2017