from A Lithology of Childhood
In the cave of morning fossils children fly into the accident of the world not knowing beforehand how shiny their moons will be. Thus, a child of tar and peat ash cannot know her sediment until she is picked. This is a profound grievance. And the sun.
Brown to be, mouth convex, willing lonely dance, spinning.
False promise where her mouth was once lost. It’s a biting kind of place: all teeth.