I linger around the curve of letters too long:

they arrange and rearrange themselves

like the reversal of colors on harpsichord keys,

but their full heritage of noises

remains elegantly intact.

The bend in the

typeface like a hutch where a small coyote

scrapes against possible extinction

until, he can trot with family

members, his own braying

      startling even that

 of his father’s.

Those howls to us sound like children

in dense fog, giggling angrily,

scrambling over a rockface

as paws scratch errant nails

into a blistering cascade of water.

Drink freely!

Drink freely!

Drink freely!