The mug pulsed between my hands…
So the muse sat down with the cynic, and they began to talk.
I am freed! I am freed!
his fellow students filed in row by row like convicts.
bowerbird, bowerbird, what hath you in your nest?
lip, dip, paint. lip, dip, paint.
may the winds be softer this year.
little blackbird, little blackbird, why do you weep?
two forms emerged from the depths of the wastepaper-dunes.
a letter addressed to the writer who wrote it, written with a bit of antiquity.