Innocence.
Not prey, fallen to stalkward regimens thought out by other-than. Not at all lithe yet. Calf legs. Pretty much and not yet tired. Retractable. What would one write with it. The sun. The stowaway glee. The parity.
Now in the silence of just-made moon. Squares of the sky. Stalled timber. Right precip- left aground. And yet better to be salt where there is reason.
To be consumed is also other.
To be invested (in), a different thing. Weather as water.
Dry to the touch. One tastes. Everything.
The latch on the door that opens or not two ways. Depth of summer. Recency of winter. Cry to mean implore and not enough.
Hope also.
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