from Daphne and Laura and So Forth
Why talk when you can whisper?
Rustle, like dried leaves.
Under the bed.
It’s ugly here, but safer.
I have eight fingers
And a shell, and live in corners.
I’m free to stay up all night.
I’m working on
these ideas of my own:
venom, a web, a hat,
some last resort.
He was running,
he was asking something,
he wanted something or other.
Margaret Atwood
