shearing off it will be the quick delight of a rare seen bird...

how oft when the daylight wanes...

it is as uncomfortable as hand-me-down shoes...

...and the measures that assuage no hunger

I drag not a shadow. I will leave no mark...

Emma McFadden, oh — now she had the apparatus...

wattle and daub, flimsy as our age...

your grace peppered with stone cold rain and the cruel intents...

she was vodka straight and easy in her clan sacred in a way...

the stew of our lives cools in that blue porcelain bowl we save for Sundays...