harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
Angel's down with her wings matted and twisted through the love that she meant to me: i see somewhere those cream wings scattered not far like rambo's were; dragged and plucked, splashed with the red crayola hue of my child hands; though they're still young and nails bitten (down) and up to no good still. and i had pried open your shell when you could not reach out a beak to speak: soft summer child, you were a little whiteling amongst your brothers and sisters; my favourite daughter instantly when i brought you to life on the backseat of a car -- heading homeward -- like a little lemon drop in our laps, a sherbet lemon love pressed to my lips with that newborn smell (remember how they would hop out into our hands?) angel's down angel's down: i just can't bear to hear the sound -- perhaps i just took it to heart a little too much.
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