Blog Archives - The Crooked Treehouse

Boundaries

1/24/2016

PERIMETER B
Julie Doxsee

It takes 3 weeks to eat the poem. Three weeks of long mornings and coffee hidden under the table where banshees play jacks for big money. Nobody knows. The act.

Twilit foliage dries as vines die in a ravine. A girl gathers rocks and piles them on her belly.

A past rips in half, one side of itself wounded at the split, umbilical eyes still holding. As the afternoon passes it shrinks to a speck in the clouds.

When eyes meet they don't touch. The eye never ages distance. Anyone could be gazing directly at you from the stratosphere. Now. Anyone is gone.

from Julie Doxsee's Undersleep
recommended by Anis Mojgani

BOUNDARIES
Adam Stone

There is no passion left I do not devour anything but time Slabs of it dripping over my bed Staining the sheets in the least erotic fashion

I broke up with my last ex when i realized he spent more time talking to my voicemail than me He kept tagging me in photos of locked doors and barred windows

My mother sent a saint bernard to my place of employment Around his neck was a spikeless collar and a barrel full of returned mail The post office assumes that since i don't respond anymore that i no longer wish to hear from the strangers who care about me

I have always been more middle fingers than tears More sigh than silence I don't use shoulders as tissues I am more likely to assist a samaritan I believe bridges are for burning not leaping

Repellent

1/22/2016

SWEET BLOOD
Kevin Young

Like stars the mosquitoes
swarm. He's gone. We sit

unscreened on the porch,
my father doused

in bugspray, that sweet-sick
stank. We drink

because my father's father be buried,
because the road will not carry

anyone but cousins, or neighbors
whose silhouetted and dust

we know. We drink.
Only son of an only son,

I do not share
my father's sweet blood--

what draws the skeeters
near him, braving the repellent

cloud, his quick hands, for a taste.
Finally my father gives--

I'm getting eaten up--
and heads inside

slapping red his legs.
Somewhere by the highwayside

my grandfather rests, his body
vaulted in ground that does not shift

we hope, or give back its dead.
We drink and forgive

the bugs who come for us
with dusk, who draw blood

the way we swallow
thin beer and words

like love--in order
to survive.

from Kevin Young's Dear Darkness
recommended by Derek Williams

A LIST OF MOSQUITO REPELLENTS IN DECLINING ORDER OF EFFECTIVENESS
Adam Stone

The word Off
Your white noise interpretation of an aerosol spray can
Soft skin
Humming the bassline to Too Much Blood
Driving with your windows open and listening to talk radio
A wedding ring
A tattoo of a candle on your inner thigh
Baseball season
Repeating the Apostles' Creed
Restraining order
Refusing to back down on your #AllLivesMatter stance
Eating garlic
Not explicitly inviting them into your house
Reading Anne Rice novels aloud
Burning your body down and having your descendants salt the earth
Flat Earth Theory
Not believing in mosquitoes' power over you
Not believing in mosquitoes
Not believing in yourself
Flatulence
Motivational posters
Grunting threatening obscenities as you lift brah
Wearing a hat
Politely asking them not to invade your personal space
Pointing out how much sweeter your diabetic friend's blood is
Screaming
Waving your hands like you care so much so very very much
Casually mentioning that Mosquito is your favorite horror movie
Slowly surrendering your fly swatter to the ground
Saying bzzzzzt in a mocking tone
Wetting yourself
Standing perfectly still in a shallow puddle in august daring the disease vectors to bite you

Cancer Is Catholic -- It Loves To Evangelize, & It Will Intermarry With Anything To Claim The Progeny

1/20/2016

WHITE RABBIT
Edward Dorn

The bloodworker was in a bad mood
unreasonable as it would be
to imagine she enjoys her work
if she enjoys hurting you as
an aspect of not enjoying her work--
well, I'll have to interview the alien
on that one. Sometimes I imagine it yawns.
Life for an alien is not any better
than it is for the subject. This fact
is rarely remarked.

The drawing method they use at this clinic
is a spring-loaded blade which slits
the side of the great or the ring finger
very fast, very painful but very brief
mercifully, sweet baby Jesus, very brief.
The bloodworker extracts the blood
with a series of short passes
over the slit,
the blood collects in the rounded
bottom of a small test tube.

Why do it this way rather than
sticking you with another needle?
Exactly, yet another needle
the whole affair is an attack on the veins
to get at the Alien and its migrating colonies.
Cancer is Catholic -- it loves to
evangelize, and it will intermarry with anything
to claim the progeny.
I suppose I made a smart remark
as usual, my tongue has been
my genius and my downfall.
The nurse began to collect the specimen
with ever increasing pressure on the split flesh
I nearly fainted, but not a tear
fell from my lid, and not a throb shook my throat
until I'd left the collecting station
and then I shook and wept, and Jesus,
I'm sorry to say I hated that
bloodworker even despite the fact
that I knew she couldn't help
what she had a great irresistible
need to do, to hurt me deeply
because I was a bearer of cancer.

We had saluted the day when
Jenny said WHITE RABBIT*
I lay for a while trying to think
what would I wish for if such a genie
really delivered -- a dismissal of the alien?
...no. There are wishes too complex to be granted.
I wished (and I'm not supposed to tell you this!)
I wished for a needle worker to
set up my infusion lines
without blowing a vein.
And lo and behold, into the
waiting room came a nurse
like on a half shell
except dressed in white
and led me to a small room
with a TV/video cassette port
which I'd never reached before.
Flawless butterfly insertion
uncomplicated, competent anchoring
I could have wept at my good fortune
but I didn't, I thanked her
sincerely and asked for a V-8 juice,
I was even drinking it without enzymes.

And soon my vision tightened with Decadron
the first of the drips instilling you
with the fortitude to take the onslaught
of the now looming Taxol before
the sleepy-Alice-in-Wonderland
admixture of Benadryl and stomach
stiller Tagamet, oh wondrous day
Chemo day, Monday, and it must be
obvious to all in this era, obvious to all
telling the truth violates
your right to free speech
violates your expectation of credibility.
Telling the truth will greatly amuse your alien
if you got one.

from Edward Dorn's Chemo Sábe
recommended by Jeff Stumpo

* - WHITE RABBIT (which Adam Stone has always heard as "Rabbit Rabbit") must be the first thing you utter when you wake up on the first of any month in order to get a wish

QUACK
Adam Stone

Doctor trump is building a wall to keep
mental illness out of our country
Schizophrenia is on the do not fly list
All the broken limbs voted him into
office The doctor is morally obligated to support
cancer but doesn't believe its
lymphnode of origin He believes
depression sends all of its rapists among us
visibly injured americans The biggest problem our country is facing
is exhaustion We should be able to break what
skin we own but all brain
maladies are suspect Register your asthma
A yellow star for panic attacks Only the
bandaged head wounds the crutches the
wheelchair bound veterans of the class
war may freely succeed in the land of the
fragmented All of his
unpatients cheer what they
imagine but can not see His
stethoscope head lub dubbing the
dwindling pulse of a flatlining electorate

Unlike Marilyn Manson, My Dislike Of The Drugs Is Mutual

1/19/2016

MEDS
Cynthia Huntington

1.

Living from pill to pill, from bed to couch,
what doesn’t kill me only makes me dizzy.
Pain dissolves like chalk in water,
grit on the bottom of the glass.

Waiting takes forever,
throbs to the soles of my feet, Bella noche . . .

Hives as large as mice hump up under my skin
(“no more barbiturates for you, Cynthia!”)
—itch, stretch, I don’t fit my flesh--
sting, tingle, prick, the sorcerer’s threat.

There’s a knife stabbed through my left eye.
My right foot is made of elephant hide
and weighs in at roughly one cartload of potatoes.
Oxygen twenty-four hours; I’m swelled with steroids,

prednisone buzz in the brain; a motel room
with sixteen foreign workers sleeping in shifts,
playing reggae at three a.m.

2.

Oh I love my white pill
that makes the black fist of pain unclench,
unspasming the nerves. I float,
released to darkness visible,
worlds dissolving.

And the yellow pill, bitter on my tongue,
that wakes me at 2 a.m.
writing out plans in Arabic
to organize an expedition to the Pole.
Drug of hubris searing my eyes,
my scrawl unreadable in daylight: foil my enemies.

Bitter taste of fugue,
my hand shakes: some foreign being in my brain giving orders.
You must You must You will.

Later, the pungent brown liquor
shoots the dark with threads of gold behind my eyes.
One flash as the mind goes out.

3.

I must elude pain
float past clarity
pain in the brain
slammed down like a housefly.

It’s a big dodge.

Fly on a stovetop
sizzle and ash pop.

This is illusion,
mental confusion

born in the synapse.
What can be undone
down to the last gasp.
It’s a hodgepodge.

If you kill pain
you will become pain;

pain does not feel pain,
no nerves in the brain.

It’s a mind-fuck.

It’s just your bad luck.

A torpor sealed my brain
I felt no humans near
it seemed to me I could not feel
or touch or see or hear.

I don’t know who I am
without my medicine.
My skin will crawl with bugs
if I don’t get my drugs.
My brain’s a maelstrom,
singing a sad song.
Reality is so cruel.

Prednisone oh prednisone
so fast my mind racing, never tasting
rest.

Razzle-dazzle razz

Fist bitch piss stitch witch . . .
(only wait, the fit will pass.)

fast, gash, lash, splash—QUIT!

(I saw a werewolf in a white suit, walking
past the tables at the Full Moon Café.
Floppy bow tie, big furry hands.)

Percodan, Percocet, let you go, let you rest.
When the grip lets you go and you float like a note
on the flow, there’s your life, there’s no worry--
(yeah, it’s funky how the night moves.)

Barbiturate babykins, narcotic slut,
black oil of opiate. Chatty Cathy, dirty brat,
bed-wetter, nasty pants.

Painkiller, painkiller, I have a new friend,
better than my old friend,
plugging holes in the brain:
Sigmund Freud, Sigmund Freud, Sigmund Freud, Cocaine!

I want a soft landing; let me float.
Once the seizure lifted me and threw me down.
I did not like it. I did not like lying there
on the floor looking up
through air like green water.

4.

And there is one so dark, a ghost,
it passes through the mesh of thought
without tearing a strand, whispering
destinies perceived true, pronouncing
sentences of death.

5.

A cloud, the absence of a noun, no name,
roaring far away in the summer
dark like a train, or a giant fan, or a highway that never stops.
The mind explodes in the dark of space,
unnursed by atmospheres,
as air raid sirens scream for blood
and I am only nerves, strung on constellations,
meridians and vectors quivering. A red and yellow
capsule invades the chemistry of thought; cathode rays blast
from the television screen and signals pass deep into space
until the stars are singing “Rosalita.” You
will not remember this night.

from Cynthia Huntington's Heavenly Bodies
recommended by Matthew Richards

ALL OF MY REMEDIES EXPIRE BEFORE I
Adam Stone

All of my remedies expire before i
heal Two blue capsules
swallowed for a headache i
forget about The bottle
vacations in a kitchen drawer or
backpack Ages into retirement
Useless plastic coffin for
unprescribed calm

In vegas i bought a sheet of acid from a
musician who surely thinks i am cooler and
younger living than i am It is the oldest
resident in my freezer a year later
I did a few hits last spring and
cleaned the kitchen The only thing i
hallucinated was my productivity

When i turned thirty my mother sent me a
bottle of over the counter pills designed for
senior citizens It followed me through three
addresses before i threw it away
The joke of forty is an approaching urn

Even the alcohol in my apartment has grown
sober Tequila so open and aged The
worm gets social security checks The
agave is less blue More blue haired There is a
whiskey bottle filled with vodka A gift from a
drunk now three years clean

Everything i write is so
true and factual All these
memoirs in place of desire

Observing Holidays

1/19/2016

FOURTH OF JULY
Dorianne Laux

The neighborhood cringes behind windows
washed in magnesium light, streamers fizzling
above the shingled rooftops of the apartments
across the street where teenaged boys
with mannish arms throw cherry bombs,
bottle rockets, wings and spinners, snappers,
chasers, fiery cryolite wheels onto the avenue.
Paint flakes off the flammable houses
and onto brave square plots of white grass.
Rain-deprived vines sucker the shutters.
Backyard dogs tear at the dirt, cats
run flat out, their tails straight up.
What's liberty to the checkout girl
selling smokes and nuts, greenbacks
turning her fingers to grease? The boys
insist on pursuing happiness, their birthright
a box of matches, crackers on strings,
sparklers, fountains, missiles, repeating shells,
Roman candles, Brazilian barrages.
We peek through blind slats to where they stand
around a manhole cover, the gold foam
of Corona bottles breaking at their feet,
young up-turned faces lit by large caliber
multi-shot aerials. We suffer each concussion,
the sulfur rush that smells like fear, each dizzy,
orgiastic display that says we love this country,
democracy, the right to a speedy trial. We're afraid
to complain, to cross the spent red casings
melted on asphalt in the morning's stunned
aftermath, to knock hard on any door, and find them
draped like dead men over the couches, the floor,
hands clasped behind their hears prison style,
shoulders tattooed, dreaming the dreams of free men
in summer, shirts off, holes in their jeans.

from Dorianne Laux's The Book Of Men
recommended by Michael Hazel Mlekoday

LABOR DAY
Adam Stone

The hurricaned boats that garlaned the trees that
summer finally went back home to their
harbors Helen's second husband too
returned to some place where he made more sense

Seagulls at the wake had more
cries than the mourners
less tears

Heather sifting Becky's
memories for some movie we'd all watched
It's coming from inside the house Remember?

When a stranger calls i tell her The teenager who
inflicted the movie on me when i was four or
five Some one handed age when i decided to
never answer the phone again

We mason jarred the best looking
shells One mermaid purse per
display The cat who would go
missing the next week
knocked becky's over and heather
laughed And everything
smelled like the ocean for one more
week before everyone else moved back
home to their cities and dry suburbs

Topiary Or Accident

1/18/2016

LITTLE BEAST
Richard Silken

1

An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It's thinking of love.
It's thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.

Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.

2

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

3

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.

4

He had green eyes,
so I wanted to sleep with him
green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool--
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said,
so it's summer, so it's suicide,
so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

5

It wasn't until we were well past the middle of it
that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
and not the doorway we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.

6

We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
as the road around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of
lullabies.
But damn if there isn't anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills.

7

What would you like? I'd like my money's worth.
Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this--
swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
We pull our boots on with both hands
but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do
is stand on the curb and say Sorry
about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

from Richard Silken's Crush
recommended by Sean Patrick Mulroy

I LIED WHEN I PROMISED MYSELF NO MORE LOVE POEMS
Adam Stone

He thought because i never mentioned it
that i did not notice the scars
   How he drifted to
the opposite coast of the bed before
crying his own stupid
ocean away from me

History books are edited
   conversations
   biased documentaries
   based on generations of unreliable narrators

We loved like elementary school
   history teachers
too lazy to research
which isn't to say we didn't want the best for each other
But should we rather the pay raise
the praise of higher test scores
   the happy students or
the truth?

He had scars I don't remember precisely
how they constellated His body shook but i don't remember
the rhythm or why sometimes when i
stretched to him i did not reach

I do not think the bed was too vast for comfort

Every supermarket is frozen food
   refrigerated juices
pet supplies and paper products
   cereal aisle
   juice and soda
   canned goods
Generations atlased out a
logical progression of aisles that i have never bothered to
understand but have learned to expect

I don't remember the colors of his eyes
   what he was wearing
whether his hair was topiary or accident
   the first time we lazed our eyes at each other
Sure the pattern of his chain link spine
   into my chest i remember
July 3rd at the pool where he thought he saw his mother
in my back yard

There were probably fireworks too I could tell you they
reflected in his eyes because they must have That's how eyes
refract or reflect Our understanding of anatomy was so
wrong that summer As we pushed our bodies into something we
never understood but whose
absence always laid out when i search my bed for
the promise of sleep

The Condescension Of My Own Tongue

1/16/2016

MANIFEST DESTINY
Denise Duhamel

In the Philippines
women workers in fashion doll factories
are given cash incentives
for sterilization. Body parts roll
too fast on conveyor belts.
It’s not like the famous episode
in which Lucy and Ethel
try a day of work, boxing chocolates
on an assembly line in the U.S. They stuff
most of the quick-coming candy
into their mouths, laugh brown drool
when they are fired because it doesn’t really matter--
Ricky and Fred have good jobs.
To prove they’re the ones
who belong at work, the men on TV
make a mess in Lucy’s kitchen,
a pot of rice exploding
like a white volcano. The women
in the Philippines and elsewhere ponder
big business, the benefits
of discontinuing its own children. In dreams
these women package Toys “ᴙ” Us uteruses
while a sterile Barbie, her hair tucked up
inside her Lucite helmet, plants
a flag for Mattel on the cheesiest moon.

from Denise Duhamel's Kinky
recommended by Matt Mason

APHASIA IN WHICH I MISTAKE MY LOVER AS A TOY
Adam Stone

I was mistaken when i told you i had a bad experience
dating a furry While i have merged bank
accounts and internal
fluids with people lost in their gender or
age I have never
trysted with someone who
identified as another
species My experience was with
furbies Gibberish spewing
wannabe dancers demanding me to
bedtime story them to off
Punchline all interactions I do not
speak consistency either so i could
identify with the wave of
language The condescension of my own
tongue

It is my fault for
shelving something that can
word Believing it is my right to be
loved in exchange for entertainment

I had hoped the furby would wing
parrot Mimic my
vocabulary Who wouldn’t want to
train another creature to
understand the grammar and
syntax of their own wont How was i to know every
creature comes
preprogrammed to sound methodically
human and young

The Day You Put Your Skin On Backwards

1/15/2016

FAKE SALEM
Kristin Hatch

we have fake milk here & fake anta & fake pajamas & we fall in love like math with whatever’s around: meatsteaks or shelving and/or wagner (usually wagner). in fake salem, it’s weather all the time. oh hello, parson. oh, hello PTA. what a blessing all these stripmalls. what a true asphalt marvel. in salem, we like home improvement. we like electronics. We like designer fashions for cheap. & heavens, you should see the churches. arenas like you’ve never seen. fuck greece. we’re talking rubies carved out. woods? there are woods some. it doesn’t really matter though, because they took away our dogs. fake salem is full of musicians in single-file rows all begging us back. truly, they all come back. oh hello, cake-eyes, I remember you! dipshit scoundrel. god, it can be such a bore. all of my patients are the very same patient! everybody’s fucking ass holes except maybe for that florist. i trust her hands. whatever. all of our skin is jokes we fit into, we are the messages in this fortune cookie.

from Kristin Hatch's Through The Hour Glass
chosen due to its graphic design and grammatical choices

ALL OF OUR SKIN IS JOKES WE FIT INTO
Adam Stone

I don't want to be creepy but let's get high and see if we can get trish to take off her pants and give us blow jobs You giggle You stupid opportunist You giver of pants i don't want and she needs How you held me in your own bed How you saw kriss kross on in living color and showed up at the bus stop the next day with your clothes on backwards You're not the miggity miggity miggity manything You want to age into normalcy Manager of motels with empty pools Carrier of unwashed towels dried and folded to save on water You bared your ass at me in the locker room and called me faggot You bared your ass at me in my living room and called me please You never knew when to call me which name You're not gay if there's a girl to watch you touch me It's funny Wanting my body is hilarious Who would desire such a specter Maybe you meant spectacle You always worded wrong Wrong fashion sense Wriggling your bridged tooth at unimpressed girls Who knocked that tooth out? Who bruised your wherever this time? Did you call someone the wrong name in the wrong dark again? When we grew up we should move to san francisco together wasn't even the most suspect thing you said that day Did you wrestle your stereotypes as they demoned your want? Now that you florida Now that you've methed into more bridges who do you wiggle your teeth at? Who do you kiss when nobody's watching?

Brevity Is The Soul

1/15/2016

IN
Harry Hoogstraten

in
   the garden sun
you sit
   sewing the hole
in my pants
on your day off
   you do this
for me
   you stop me
from falling
   through
   the rest
   of the week

from Harry Hoogstraten's Boxing Days
blind pick at Grolier Poetry Book Shop

THE SEARCH
Adam Stone

The search
   engine reveals more
truths about
the seeker than the information
they requested

There is a government
machine that is worried about you but
   has no one to talk to
   about it

Jealous Instruments

1/14/2016

JALOUSIES
Hsia Yü

When the wind blows the jalousies drone like a pump organ
The sea by the shore is like a crime you are reluctant to commit
When the wind blows basking in the sun is like an egg
About to burst its shell
All that remains is to finish filling the pages in this notebook
Then practice a new instrument called the bag-pipe
On account of the wind slipping through the hollows of my knees on account of that fellow
He is a word I accidentally stumbled on
While looking for another word so
Some things are no different than taking a piano in the middle of a concert
And the pianist and hurling them both at high velocity to the bottom of the sea
Not yet conscious of what has happened they continue on the ocean floor
And someone with amnesia sitting on the shore hears the music welling up
Evoking the memory of those stop-tuberculosis stamps they used to sell in school
So the words we stumble on begin to take over but strangely enough
We never mistake one kiss for another
We mistake our luggage
Upon opening the suitcase I discovered the book the man was reading
The last 3 pages of was mine
So then what happened next?
This man who’d mistaken my luggage for his knew how everything turned out before I did
His clothes had the smell of travel and a rumpled look
Out fell a ticket stub from a far-away city
He’d gone to see a film by himself
He had a bag-pipe too
The air flowing through it darted between my nape and collar
In a flash he took the book I’d been reading
He took the last ten pages I’d not yet read
And tore them to shreds he closed the book
He took my suitcase and gave it back to me

from Hsia Yü's Salsa
recommended by Elizabeth Doran at Grolier's

INSTRUMENTS OF MY CHILDHOOD
Adam Stone

Before i could choose the piano My mother
stereotyped me the flute Only a broken arm
released me from band practice where i was the
only boy The trumpet too took too much
wind from me These were the instruments of my
cousins And so free though we could soon
afford the piano without their help My first car my mother
joked Though the first piano was
donated by a neighbor whose kids tired of it but who himself
concerted it from the back of my father's
pickup truck down the steep hill
between the house built just for us and the
second house built just for us when my parents
grew exhausted of the shape of the first

I buried the flute expecting all of my
desire to lip and finger that shape to
die with it And i’m sure it probably
bloomed into some ridiculous
pink flower while i wasn’t
watching but i was most afraid it would
interrupt the mower when my father
trimmed the not just lawn but
the barely woods that
shaded us from the neighbors i desired

I put the trumpet in the same black
case all the brass students owned and
willed it stolen

The piano survived into my almost
thirties Sold by a former roommate The money
split for security on a new apartment

I wonder the lips of the trumpet thief
Also now nearing four times the age of the
act of theft Maybe with a child who will
hate it as much as i did Or did the memory of my lips
taunt him to piano too

Who ungraved the flute Or is still buried
treasure Curious garden antique Did it
chip under shovel Will it ever again
wheeze under an inadequate mouth?