Nob 2, 2014

Pandan Scarecrow

Night had begun parading its tinier sounds, all of them, save for ache and water, and other people. The gecko hinted at the repeat of rain, would not commit however. How was lunch with him around? Close: toys strung up, the mess I will miss, that one smelly mask. The youngest fears it, wondering maybe what had been done wrong, or how to earn a father less given to pranks. If a fork drops in the forest and nothing is wounded, are we still hungry? How about being in it, little one, the inside of its lips on the outside of yours, the taste of various milk teeth? How suddenly we burped into song. Hinting, again. We’ve come a long way from the typewriter . . . but coming now, down to your feet, down to tracing these bones of your feet.

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