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.
Where, Broken (the darkness
Cows on the spine of the hill like the spine of a book are some letters Letters with legs; like an E and an L or an R that is squared like the box of the body of cows Like the spine of a book, the legs and the bodies of cows spell out the name and maybe the head spells also the name of the book on whose spine is embossed the name made of grass: The light of the many days and the darkness the roots of the grass pull up out of the hill and the light pushes down with the feet of the cows and the darkness inside of the skulls of the cows, all these the name has eaten The lines of the spines of the cows grazing the sky, the meeting of spine and sky also marking the arcing edges of dark or light letters on dark or light pages where, broken, the name grazes the thing it will know or mean or become These are the choices. However, there are other books.