Hello again from Grand Fenwick, the molten core of world poetics. Here even the grasshoppers are fledgling poets. There's an old saying in Fenwick:

"When the grasshoppers do their cricket schtick, November is upon us."

How poetic can you get.

This morning, as I was out with Gee-Whee & Guppy for our morning (not-so-strict-constructionist) constitutional around Pond Pond, I noticed Bon-Bon Billiman also perambulating, with his new friend, Private Mayhew. Bon-Bon was looking intently down at the marsh grass, muttering something like "peanut butter is not a poetics". Then I noticed a dark-haired woman in a trenchcoat, unobtrusively tailing them. I think it was Marion the Librarian.


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