I was down below in the leaves and the mud where my mother voice echos like grinding wheels.
I’m was born in October, and have been waiting since then to put my clothes on.
When i get hungry my mouth works in circles around all the food in the world.
The lock on the garden gate is hardly fooling anyone.
Once a weeks since the day i was born, i watch one day heading backwards, (backwards anyhow to how you might watch it go by.)
And the window i look through is the cleanest of all.
For my birthday (which is everyday) i give myself a hair for a president, or a leg, or an increment down hill, or the fist of the sun going backwards,( rising in the west)
I fall in in love often but mostly find it was just my foot sticking out from under a dead fern.
Specificity is meaningless.
It’s pointless to make compromises, all actions are swallowing.