Whim the Weedwise teaches, “follow your first name, the one was never given you, the one before the game. (she means the game of yes and no, of black and white; the game of here and there, and now and then, and…
follow the red thread, pulling up handfuls in each hand; cross the lake on floating bridge to where the strand meets sand. see there, in the shallows? funeral barks lie sunken, home to crabs in spiral shells. beyond the beach, the path…
they say it in the quiet hour, whispering: there is a flower. in almost all the worlds it’s red as rising mercury is tinted, red as [s]lips would flush to whisper all the words at which eyes’ glints have hinted. for this…