7 Dec 2021

But then, Quinn was a young whippersnapper....

 And could not know the joy, on the eve of Quinning....

All that matters and ever did.

(even if of course it will not translate: "mine missives, read like poet


To  get to the eve of Quinn,

not quite so whippernap...

And know that all that natters is no matter whom

zat your gate...

or door.

Time..... to let those little bubbles of sherbet candyfloss and populist poignancy

(did she even hear my Missive? it say's "cannot open", here, the technofukkery 

of it all)

coarse through the blud and be antidote to all, simply that one can still feel them

even better.

But the order of things

The sequence

Is that mine terms, which are everything we knew two decades ago.

All must be:

to be