Fold the letters E P I C around you,
let them be your mithril with room for
elbows and air. The hero's quest bugles,
already it's late morning. You have slept in.
It's pointless to step beyond this frame,
or soften steely gazes already snagging
the long view. Catch up with your dreams, erstwhile
claiming script and masque. Don't be late for rehearsal.
If the fox can come to the hunters house with
lights blazing like the fourth of July; you'd best listen
to her story, watch her pace. In myths of vixen couriers,
the moment is the message.