by Karen VolkmanI asked every flower I met had they seen my palest friend. The one called world-without-end shook from its august arrête. "A blink in the dark, pauvrette, this business of breach and mend." Then to search is only to spend? A bier in the air, oubliette? "Fertility's fraud is forget. The soil that strains in the eye breeding nuance, nascence, name re-blooming a world that will die. Each grain is a doorless my: To search is only to same."
