I, too, come from the city of dolls. A small palm is my umbrella. This takes care of above but below, the blind river of sadness rolls on and in it, a hand is always reaching up to pick fish from the night-time sky. The lines on the palm of the hand lure a trout with a strand of hair from the head of a doll. The bait is the hope for a hand on your brow. Shadows play on the wall. Or the face of a doll. The plants eyeing each other is all. I would not call the stars generous. They don't cry enough for dolls to play Drink Me. They don't cast a covenant's fishy rainbow yet leaf faces watch the open window where they hang far and hard. The rein of starlight a second hand with which to play Go Fish. Now Give me a hand, plants. Now give me good-night, stars.
The better to hear you with, my dear. Come right in, prayer. Let those who have ears to hear, hear. (Ab. Sourd, bien sûr.) Of course, of course. Amo, amas: He listens. She glistens. Dear god, don't let me use. Shadows wave. Wane. Weather, and in that vein, a work of translation: shoot up, get high. Plough the clouds. Sky furrows, the brow of night, an evil thought, a star especially bright: anger, just that. Scat, track, shit, horse and what'd he just throw in our yard? Of night, a needle. Erose, the petal of the rosary to ring god's words around. Erose, those words in the mouth of night. where no teeth are.