harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
flicked switch: nightlight scatters soft orange elephant tusks on the walls. mrs darling cries and fills her three daughters with remorse for the granite roses on the wall —
my throat is sore as i squeeze her hand: the nails are tender for they might fall off soon, and i sense death in a numb daydream of a window opened — hers, mine, perhaps ours in a nimbus
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