hawthorns run up my window in five note scales stopped only by their staccatto I lose another day upstairs, sparrows pluck my skylight to tell me I have blinds my bread they can see they have my cat in their cannery in their green belt of time is comfort in the forest of their plight as the thorns which perch them bend to their relentless crunch and peck there is a new order: my mock trial I have become a juried exhibition renting their space.

Diane Stevenson Schmolka (Oct. 30, 1987)

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