The ferry goes to the island, comes back again. I wasn’t on it.

There are more birds here than I remember. Or less panthers. Both, probably.

See yourself in a sandbox. We’re there together, we’re children. The desert calls you home for supper.

You are more beautiful than the Lone Ranger at Normandy. Two flags become his canopy.

I haunt the beekeeper, and am paid accordingly. Easy to haunt, he moves like a list, noticing nothing.