No more of this artless ferreting.
My handbag is giving up.
Love isn’t fair, victory becomes regretting.
Placid, churned up, lodestone air
Tangled in netting.
Old fingertips aren’t caterpillars anymore,
Tracing sugar trails through our old arching lines.
Breakfast promises, delicate touches,
And precious, dainty flaws.
Beneath a twilight canopy,
Across ground crowded with talking and fight-wonky trash.
Roving quantum sight tripped over stodgy sofas
To gleam the first long glare
Of unbroken.
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