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Somebody wrote "tender" in the novel's margins -
as if to remind about a precious force.
In the next paragraph, the protagonist
sat down on the belly of a dead horse.
The author I read fell from a window many stories high,
stretching out to feed pigeons or a stray cat depending on the website.

Whether or not I have or was given a little more time,
there just doesn't seem to be much room for a reply.
And it's possible it only belongs where it happened, fine.
According to John, fear softens into doubt.
To what do I cling and think is mine? No reply.

"Think the last time I came up this way I was younger" -
said your aunt, isn't it a good line?
We found the garden abandoned
and that night became dark over chicken and wine.
Documentarians tossing lemmings stunned over the edge,
wartime juveniles shot and martyred for the crime of stealing eggs.
Dinner, by the way, was divine.
I drank the last of the coffee waiting for you to rise.

Whether or not I have or was given a little more time,
there just doesn't seem to be much room for a reply.
And it's possible it only belongs where it happened, fine.
According to John, fear softens into doubt.
To what do I cling and think is -
Whether or not I have or was given a little more time,
there just doesn't seem to be much room for your reply.
And it's possible it only belongs where it happened, fine.
According to John, fear softens into doubt.
To what do I cling and think is mine? No reply.

Reply, no.

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