A little leaflet of tears lilts, falls out. Garden
chewing on the stars and enclosed, the fissure
you’re hearing sinks what you’re hearing in the days,
toothless as salt. I guard you, I read
until I am carved.
a hole that rotates into a day thus largely I survive
apocryphal event and reason to hang her harp
through the convolvulus of an engine of our love:
that all dolls like ours be beaten, be written, be teared
away. I had produced no music. And the friends move on.