Dressed for dinner, she leaves out water for the crows in her coat and mask Low hangs a boiled moon fingers stick up through the sand farewell to low tides No one notices much about anything so I think I'm safe Dry dirt tossed over my blind brain at mid-evening three layers of black Wakizashi behind glass at the museum whose hand drew it last? Little girl chases after one pigeon, while Dad eyes the crosswalk light To reach the grass blade sticking up brave through the snow, south around the pond Afraid of death to the point where I should write "so, so, so" in rows 44's pull-cord bell dying down into silence the lunatic shifts Leaden lump worry crackers soothe my belly a fan cools my brow
