robin clarke


This descent less decisive but at least a being called away, as the break of pool balls rolling to. Look up, a precise if not intentional direction: Blue Angels are famous in bereft landscapes. The rabbit is pulled back into the hat. Like shot birds, the break of planes in diamond formation. The lead sprinter opens his fists in wonder and rewinds from the finish. How can you be sure I’m not the indigo children. Around the neck the hare is a kind of avocation. If not special at least every day.




The missing silicone in valley, the uncanny in office parks gone as yet unmarked, do these not testify to a great unpardonable betrayal? If neon seems unnatural, ready or not. Twenty-five cents for this gilt-winged dog. Twenty-five apologies for the duck brain mousse. Once, a toddler tried to hug his television set and felt—how else—beloved when the pink and yellow cuddlers came crash upon his sweet, unossified dome. This article does not cite any references or sources. If nature seems unnatural, try. I cannot help it: every time a snow man sticks his fat stick into the weather I feel.