Sad we aren’t cluckmates anymore.

I hear that sickle tongue uproar.

 

Focused, she fasts on a lonely bed,

A tam’o shanter for five bald heads.

 

I see her steal my pearls, heel straw,

A miser swathing her fragile store.

 

Her eyes are deep wells. She needs

The alchemy of cracking seeds

 

To dandelion clocks. Tipped off the nest,

Today, she frets. Manster may know best,

 

But how she wails at the water bowl,

Twitching, scrambled, losing control.

 

When the seedlings have dispersed

We will play wormchew, spiderburst

 

And combwing, or perhaps it will be

My phase of the shellwarm lunacy.