About the Author

From L O R E Dog star. Darkling daub mite. Myrtle was wound about the daughter-cell's descent into debit, and her eventual retool to lidless lift-off. Woods of Thessaly. Threefold crossroads. It is not only this glass case in which I travel. A song was flung towards any mirror. Of air she came and that being so, some asked how it might be that she'd come to be clung in flight and rooted above herself. It might have been eyes remained in placid depths, the eye in seeing eye, amber bone. Ash of ember, broken stick, nothing bad has happened here, I write you back. Restore sight while crossing water. In 2,000 BC bands of nomadic azure, from the kismet stepwise of Russian wolf-thistle descended upon and conquered many of the civets and villanelles of the harlequin culottes. This book is midnight bent and folded. The month of hedges. Diamond myth, a table eaten by moonlight. Keeping-apples. Blotting-cherries. Dream of posey pool. One cannot rely on rainstorms. A lisping cart. Movement of words across a brow. Pink glass was a pen, not a slipper. There are no spells to put forward. "But if you begin to ask why my lad, you'll be stepping out on the road of never end." Search your own hand and you will find the instrument; lacuna, a hollow, rollaway lollop. I carried the syllables, inadvertently, rearranging. But the original oracle- superstition: it will follow your breath in this land. There is no pasture of because. There is no because, which is why: a violinist bringing back time as it was. A child could have drowned in so many sailfish. You are your own compendium: walking story. Eat two peaches stick one pit in mud make tea with the other typhoid willowware blackout bladeapple gemma elver © Laynie Brown