Astrid Lindgren, I miss you. All horseshoes return home like boomerangs, all horses fondle the uppermost ribbon of the electric fence with their articulate, prehensile lips. A faint electrical fuzz fills the interstice. Homegoing is nothing personal, horses go home.

All snowflakes fall to the ground. Each persimmon is wretchedly bitter then unexpectedly sweet. How could you do this to me? America becomes sweeter the longer you are gone. Dictionaries fall open to that very page and inevitably the finance ministry sends a red envelope after the green one after the white.

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