a come thing Loud Out, Owl Girl. Owl. Owl. Spit-
off. Mornings Crinkle Bright Paper Bits Flame
the thump she wound to a cluck. Quick bluish
broth is the lick lowered over Night shirt,
the sky sent to twigs. Whack. Melon Ball
Spangle Flashes. The bucket set out to
collect. Drops scald instead of hold. Her Soak
upsets her vase. Her ears sit, public gardens
give out, lifting once by inches. Is she
waving? I am nodding, my loves keep up.
Loosen them from twigs. I have no windmills.
I can only think our see-make swash. Avoiding
the columns, she decides the sky marble
harvest; flies in gauze, dots hot to turn stalks.