Against Conceit

Don't say Sir Pigeon in his cobalt bonnet. Don't find among your notes jottings on duvets and blizzards and the page unwalked across black missives of girlhood must be sent off and do not claim the furnace of the universe is powered by human screams. When the dark turns dark or when the bullet lifts a scalp, it is enough to know the lover feels the slap that the world can hear the sharp shout which wakes the cat her claws one inch from the rabbit's bobbing scut.