It is with motion unintended
that their eyes blaze
the furrows of brows creasing even deeper
in celestial oil.
Their venom, unreported,
stings.
What tines still protrude from the marrow
what eloquence has saved for last-
a million star beam children.
Little Lottie dances in circles
running the crisp grass through her incisors
before shooting back to her mother.
to wait for the next dry spell.
