One is more stable than two.
With two there is a swirl of smoke,
a scattering of hand tools,
a Swiss file so fine it will snap.
Pass me the D-string, you say.
There, that packet with the black and gold lady.
the bird plunging straight down.
We drink bourbon with mint leaves.
We listen to the Dead, and I cannot
discern a single one of the words you love.
This beak-first idea
runs my cup over, or at least
keeps filling and filling it.