prose for Elizabeth Willis.

Litanities for sale in an old woman’s front yard. Somewhere in the Farmer’s Hills, where cows are born to cheese, and waking snakes doesn’t make you a snake-waker. Too many Quakers to count, she said in my cereal. My remember bubbles are fading the ceiling, or the carpet, or the once lost art of rain continuing into rain.

1. With the daisycutters, trample and trim the clovergrove to the appropriately sedated caliber-onyx.
2. and that was where we once squaredanced, dancing squares and reverently remembering what made the doors open.