Epigany II

I observe a small girl. Her dolls observe me. All around us there are circles. Would you get a way, a way away from the edges of dire shadows? Someone asks me this, but I only have one leg. It’s made of books, actually. I like to sell books to frogs, even though they pay with flies. These books are very tiny. Almost microscopic. You can have a whole library of them in a thimble. When I look at the lines of my thumbprint, my tears become teas. Hummingbirds prefer a simple antidote to any war that might, momentarily, arise. While I was writing this, I heard someone say, as if I was listening: “Seven lights distributed over seven hours.” It seemed prophetic, the way such lights imply stars without yet quite becoming them.