Come live with me and be my amanuensis!
We’ll fashion with care a belletristic
hideaway, scrounging up seeds from antiquity’s
herbarium to plant between the zed and the
naught, cultivating tansies to a T.
Do not frighten the unsuspecting poinsettas.
And please don’t breathe a word when the cowboy gets home –
you won’t recognize him, for that matter.
Just who do you suppose him to be? A cattle
rustler, running the little dogies along a
blinding gamut from sol to brightest re?
Certainly not one such as I that merely sings!
You thought I was more than a fey grammarian?
I, the boldest abecedarian?
I am no more than an affect of unspelled things.
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[Next: Stirring the Ashes]