Teahorse

You are not a wordsmith whatever you might like to think. ('Smith' indicates precision and coldness and fire: words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.) It's a difficult road to follow, and not many make it past the fork.  Choose a path, Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders: I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery. Notebooks scattered across the landscape of a child's room, to be stumbled across, read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night. When the bough breaks a hanged man laughs.  He carries typewriters in his pockets, and cigarettes