You have always been nosebleed and nail-bite, the spit-shined halls where you harvested us with your tribal clang. Too long we saw your face in every shadow, felt the whole forest await your arrival like a nagging frost.
Goddess, I have watched your motions gratify the world. Votaries of all casts and ages, genders, voices bow to you as they must, for nothing follows without you.
Turner, a celebrity chef, wrote Brian Turner’s Favourite British Recipes: Classic Dishes from Yorkshire Pudding to Spotted Dick. He played drums for the horror-punk band Schoolyard Heroes, played hockey for New Zealand in the sixties, lifted the impossible as the eighth-strongest man in the world.
Suppose we surprised him coming off the path into the patch of pines and saw palmettos, two girls with our child-sized bikes. Suppose he had a reason to chase us back to the path, his pale face flushed with—what? Desire? Wrath?
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