OUT HERE IN
THE WIRED LAND
We are walking Pogo-like over the landscape
of children; Roald Dahl has nothing on us, and
even his mountebanks and kindling leach no flames
from his fire. There is too much not to understand.
-
Dogs and chickens are children too? Shall there
come a time when they talk? I want to watch the
wind around me, yes, but it as well cannot be seen -
neither seen nor heard are all these magical things.
The Temperance League has a timeshare at Duffey's
Tavern, where they gather their boots and galoshes.
I want to look, but can't, and the suspense is killing me.
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