between his neck and curls
smelled of nutmeg and warm milk.
on a window sill,
silly sappy songish.
sooty, i walked the alleyway.
"i am left to carry this. this. empty basket. ive dropped my seeds."
not prim nor proper,
not avarice nor concession.
i sit transparent as a previctorian bed sheet,
waiting for forgetting to grow.