Robert Ostrom
Beehive; Thimble Forest

I gave her a blonde-haired doll. She said, be careful, someday your doll will kill your dog. I give you, Sofia, my good portions. In the near new future, there will be no more dolor, all your valleys will blush and disappear the way flintlocks lit the faces of soldiers. One night, under Sofia, a spider nested in my beard and, as it worked, I could hear it mumble, make her a parakeet as small as the cup of your palm, husk her of possibility until she stirs like a cave. Sofia, the one lit room in a dark house. Sofia, the jockey lost his way. Let us speak frankly, she'd say, until only the verbs remain. In your woods. Sofia, bar the door.