And everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour; butterflies and birds collide, at hot ungodly hours. And my clay-coloured motherlessn… - Joanna Newsom

And the love we hold, and the love we spurn, Will never grow cold, only taciturn

I killed my dinner
with karate
kicked him in the face,taste the body, shallow work is the work that I do.

In December of that year,
the word came down that she was here.
The days grew shorter.
I was sure, if she came 'round,
I’d hold my ground. I'd endure.
But they'd alluded to a change
that came to pass,
and Spring, deranged,
weeping grass and sleepless,
broke herself upon my windowglass.
And I could barely breathe, for seeing
all the splintered light that leaked her fissures,
fleeing, launched in flight:
unstaunched daylight, brightly bleeding,
bleached the night with dawn, deleting,
in that high sun,
after our good run,
when the spirit bends
beneath knowing it must end.