avant_garde ovenbird When it’s late enough to say it’s evening, and dinner has been made and eaten, and the kitchen is cleared of dishes and dissent, I pull on pyjamas and climb into bed with my books and my blankets and dreams. Surrounded by stories and fur and confessions I send my voice across great distances. I want to write a poem that has never been written, but the past is there for me to read and every word I think is new is only new to me. I would give back my name to the star that birthed me for the chance to make myself something you’ve never seen. Something unafraid. Something that stays. 260113 what's it to you? who go blather from