The brain is a city turned in on itself.
Parts of the grid have disappeared.
The neighbors can’t speak to one another about where they’ve been.
Children recognize their parents’ sorrows.
The mayor sleeps farthest from the sun.
Wind storms stole my vocation from me, my warrior name, my belief in a certain type of love.
I’m designing a patch under the sleeve to come back.
An elixir for figuring some of this out.
If I remember where you are, I’m sheathed in Sunday dream.
When the coffee wears off–the final winter days, truculent, shuffle sunlight.
Just finished The Infinity Puzzle, finally, so still reading TTW: just how will the lovely, irresistibly precious, seventeen-year old Claire manifest her destiny to Henry in good time? Will he be worthy? How so?