Stone cliffs muscular as childhood, the way childhood gets hit with sunset,
the way childhood gets dark near corridors, the way childhood gets sled red
along waters. I have been lilygreen struck at soft passages. I have had a
blue corona, archwhite smattered with rays, blank and cannibalistic as
regret. And regret can be stainwashed, ekphrastic. Right? Anyone? Fine,
then. How many fingers am I holding up?