Margo gobs a peach with all the fuzz, fleece of Jupiter but sweet-
Like a tree is sweet for waiting so slowly they suddenly bare fruit.
She thinks about her pillow full of Sleep and Pity
melting into a queen-sized oblivion, marking Time with dim Arrows.
She feeds the wrong wolf now and then.
But she prospers where her sparrows depart from this World
And never Comes Back, so much as Return
To Turning.