we cannot take in enough of the legible air. the pilot light's exhaustion. our fourteenth read of _fragrant palm leaves_. in the scarce community garden, someone has tied wooden hands to the trellis. the boy with the round face finds some nettled tennis balls to throw beneath the briars. he notices how the earth makes its own traps. forgiven, yes, we are, eventually, cold enough to circle back. they bring assured logs, a case of matches, wool on spindles & sheet metal with lapsing stars (not a gallant material, but nonetheless).
