In the Drents Museum

The rope, it is a breathless yes fingers press into this windy oboe my throat—one woolen waistband slip-knotted on neck keeps me warm below twelve feet of peat, lineless, a convalescent’s skin only mud the boy-doctors dig into unearthing each indivisible number. How unlike the bark of that beetled elm, its jagged beams and flagging crown fine as the hair of a queen anemic— But to be mistreated—This caused my beauty—