The children as people, as possible in the ranks, as the verb to lord closes a condition, as tornado in the mouth of many, as plainsong long ago, as rhythm based on rhythm, as fortunate enclosures, as land mine destinies, as open soreness, as seeming thru the peerage, as poking all the wound, as time spent over anxious, as boon and bust magma, children, the town, the way they talk that is almost our talk, as we feel our completion (in the throne room and deli), potent sensible except children, not the full town, only the edge of town, these children who can listen not exactly speak, not the trump of winning but the quietly there, here is there for children, when remember, the door. Door completes the picture. We open doors to close.
poems, fireflies...