1721

Throw some ink
On the touchscreen,
Leonardo, tell the bailiff
I won't placate Amy Moore.
The duststorm
That we kick up will
Illustrate
The collected works,
Night feelings
Breaking on the edge of the glass.

It's quiet inside
Me. Except for the creaking
Of the stairs
The elves pace;
They are reluctant
To say what is on their minds,
But then, they are in love,
The elves,
With the sound of the highway
And the winter winds.