Finest kind.

If a knock came at the door,
selling finest whiskey, or, better,
yet, finest cigars, I would buy them.
All. Then.
Those. I suppose, in defiance,
of your shortsightedness.
I cannot tell you, tonight, this tonight,
this rainsome, lonely night,
how it feels, to spend such stretches
alone, because you know such solitude
only in adventure. Because you successfully
avoid this mute prolong. Perhaps you miss out,
perhaps I permit myself agony.
Perhaps, you are the kind to defy my wisdom.
Perhaps, I am the kind to throw it away.

Rain.

How oft I misremember.

I can.

Scarves.

They are not allowed to wear them outside.

April, come she will.

I stare at cloudless skies,
waiting for them to warm.

Rusty Perros.

If you were a woman,
and I was a man, and
you enjoyed kissing me,
holding my hand,
and laying in bed,
and making big plans, like,
where will we live
where we'll never know cold,
and let's stay together
until we are old,
and all of the years after that,
then,
I think that we should do that.

Monkeys, all.

The robot is turned on now,
and he, at last, then,
warms us so.
And the cats come,
when we call them home.
And we make feast,
from raw milk cheese,
and spelt flour, chocolate,
broth from bones.
And fitting hip to hip
we sail in sky or sea,
and glow like coal,
two rocket ships, us,
made to fit together,
pino, he loves carrot,
she loves monkey,
he loves we.

Bubushka.

Sodapop returned, from the places he goes
when we leave him to the roaming, bloodied,
ear ripped and dime-size gash on elbow,
and, like when Grizzle's cheek pretty much
fell off, my heart did it's little dive thing,
the one it reserves for such moments, and,
of course, fattened now as he is, both hims,
on honey-salmon and such super rico treats,
but of course, he, they, we, are fine.

Family, yo.