Fortune,The alley giddy with needles, chamomile soap,
the old notes in hard pressed script. Four marbled strays remain, everything is ordinary.
I write from under the tree where we met that strange blooming fall,
Do you remember me? In the gingko’s curling shadow, I was the one made small.
Though early, dusk comes quickly, still. I am traveling. The voices all spill into corners. My limbs are a mystery. It is exactly what it sounds like. I have never left.