Admiring happy families -- of foundlings jealous, also. I envy their asylum, try the locks, and all through sanctuary's halls go.

...cute and crippled, cruel and dimpled...

Beneath notice. By all means, we'll go...owl wells abandoned.
Aboriginal peoples, displaying the visceral
dignity of a fetal piglet, orchid-pink, blunder
into open pits.

Given two grins for boiling every
bone, the maw's insatiable. What's left to do down there?
Plate sincerity and go, shining like a forearm
blow across the nose.

What premature star, spilled out of its
overturned bassinet, bounces and sputters on buckled
pavement, rushing toward intersection with an unknown
inevitable? The scent of ant lion. Heavenly.