Forgive us, Freya:
our greatest enemies feast on our own fears: fault-
lines. That freewill transfixed as it falters on
a focus for Friday,
or whatever hour frees us: off
the clock.

Even fathers get few field days–
come far, feelings fragile as peacock feathers.
A defeating but forgivable refrain: you’ll for certain
flounder under the flimsy profit of prophets.
An affront to a feasible fantasy full of fortune.

A perfect French braid isn’t a luxury every high schooler can afford
when she faces the music in marching band. Add that to
the list of all those feats my fingers have failed to master.