(When I Heard the Song of the Winter Coat)

I took aim at the old, old sophistries of June, at its hit squad of bloggers who had managed to make so many “smoke/fire” mirages, and out of the “smoke/fire” mirages ever more bloggers—all of them coming out of the blue. That place just below the troposphere where the birds fly bass ackwards—two, then one. It’s pretty blank, that absolute, where fire can be found without smoke, where warm old ladies can be found walking around without heraldries of ermine wrapped around their throats. We are not afraid—nor they. They know the horizon is lineless, and this fills them with combustionless flames. These are the days when skies put on mirages. When birds fly—the rest. When no one blogs, and the birdfly are like dottick—one, then two—to the left, and we find ourselves in bass ack. afternoons. Time to reload, apparel anew. In the ermine, the ermine they’re hunting for now— for that winter coat in June.