In my left arm I keep a fear of dogs. A fear of bees in my right. The soil informs me of a world without the distinctions of language. Let’s talk about this on the telephone. The use of electronic devices is permitted only when the cabin doors are open. In review, a way to open the doors. The memory of a river: a meadow to one side. Dogs splash in the shallows. The orphans toss them food but the dogs will not touch it. By food, I mean their dead. Only one, the largest, tears flesh from a canine skeleton. The orphans whoop. The cannibal dog has the head of a man. I tell Beretta this story. She asks about the bees. When I was seven I trod on a wasp. Here, flight as the contrary of death. A wasp is not a bee. How do you know? You weren’t there. In review, a way to reinforce solitude. The cannibal dog has the head of a man. These are developments beyond Design, as Beretta would portray herself. An anomaly, with plumage similar to the modern day peacock. Able to subsist on soil but with a preference for lilacs. I have taken to sleeping in a miniature coffin. Everything I know I learned from birds.
Richard Froude Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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