the mantis prayed while the lamellicorn tunneled and rolled in a threadbare tie. when the holland lops in the karakung glades indignantly thump their feet and hopped away when they cut their noses on the sharp-tipped blades. and there's a heat-pat waiting in the chicken-wire hutch where the does from the netherlands stay
but that dry alfalfa don't taste like much and we're tired of the timothy hay. i touched her back
she was lying facedown
the dew turned to frost in her eyes. me and sister margaret on the pentagon lawn with our wrists in a plastic tie. while the rats by the tracks on these winter days seeking shelter from the cold
make a nest from the tracts of our various ways that they can save their immortal souls. no timothy hay. oh no. timothy hay?
oh no. timothy hay?
oh no. timothy hay?
oh no. timothy hay?
oh no. timothy hay?
please no more timothy hay. no more timothy hay. oh no
no more timothy hay. no
no more timothy hay. oh no
no more timothy hay. no more timothy hay. on a cold december
just after dusk
as the sun bid its cordial goodbyes
we'll be split to pieces like an apple seed husk to reveal the tree that's been hidden inside. which sapling called in a tattered sarong as the seeds from the shepherd's purse fell