a descent into poetry insanity |
| is there anything so sad as a tortoise, reaching up to grasp a leaf between his beak, and overturning . . . he reaches his neck out, trying to rock on his shell, tries to build momentum, but tortoise shells are delicately balanced, and a neck cannot right such a heavy load. and what should we do, who spy him there? I wonder who is kind enough to turn him over again, without laughing. without taking a picture—and here is me with a tortoise. we saved him, of course. afterward. Author's Note ▶︎ |