they are not mismatched it is just the lighting

3

Can we talk more about Lextra’s room here?
Like- homegirl has 4 FUCKING RUGS IN THE CENTER OF HER ROOM AND THOSE ARE JUST THE ONES WE CAN SEE IN THESE SHOTS
WHY DO YOU NEED 4 FUCKING RUGS LEXA
THEY DONT EVEN MATCH
AND WHAT ABOUT THAT FUCKING BEAR RUG HUH? WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO IMPRESS WITH THAT? DID YOU KILL IT YOURSELF OR DO YOU JUST LIKE THE AESTHETIC IT BRINGS TO YOUR WILD ASS ROOM

AND WHY THE FUCK ARE THERE CANDLES ON THAT WEIRD SHELF THING IN THE AIR ABOVE THE BOX IN THE LAST FRAME???? HOW THE FUCK DO YOU LIGHT THOSE FUCKERS?? DO YOU JUST HAVE SOME POOR SOUL OF A SERVANT BOY NAMED WESLEY WHO HAS TO CLIMB A MOUNTAIN OF YOUR RANDOM HOARDER ASS SHIT JUST TO LIGHT 8 FUCKING CANDLES TO MATCH YOUR MISMATCHED RUGS, DEAD BEAR AESTHETIC???¿? WHAT A FUCKING HASSLE

And also what the actual fuck are those floating candle cages????¿? Why the fuck do they hang so low? Just imagine Clarke getting out of bed at like 3 am to go to the bathroom, half asleep and tired af with her eyes barely open. She knows the rooms layout enough to be able to walk through practically blind but she always forget about those stupid ass candle cages until CLANG she walks headfirst into one and smacks the shit out of her forehead. And Lexa wakes up to the smash and Clarke’s half grunt half roar of pain and salty frustration and immediately goes for her bedside dagger ready to fite like ‘who dare attack me and my Clorke?¿’ ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ
And in the darkness of their room she just gets from Clarke 'jeSUS FUCKING FUCK SHIT FUCK WHY’ and Lexa is so confused and startled and disoriented and ready to kick some ass but Clarke is still going off 'WHY THE FUCK ARE THESE THINGS EVEN REAL WHY THE FUCK DO YOU NEED THIS SHIT LEXA FUCK’ and Lexa’s eyes are adjusting and she can now see that she and Clarke are the only one’s in here so she is just like ?¿ big eyes like the confused puppy she is and like stumbling through the dark towards Clarke with needy grabby hands like 'clorke my sun and my stars I will protect- where you be?’
And Clarke is just holding her forehead continuing to roar obscenities even though it honestly isn’t even that painful she’s mostly just tired and pissed that she has to deal with this shit at 3 am and she’s just 'LEXA GET RID OF THIS SHIT YOU DONT NEED 78 FUCKING CANDLES IN HERE AND 9 OF THEM IN FUCKING FLOATING METAL FUCKING SHIT CAGES’
and yes I did count all those candles and I counted 78 fucking candles fite me (don’t actually I’m small and frail)
And Lexa is just like 'shhhh klark my love come back to sleep’
And Clarke is 'FUCKING WHY LEXA’
And Lexa is all 'shhhh it’s for the aesthetic clork’
Clarke 'bUT WHY-’
Lexa 'shhhhhhhhhhhhh the aesthetic clock the aesthetic’
And a guard comes in like 'HEDA I HEARD SCREAMING ARE YOU ALRIGHT’
And Clarke grabs some random ass candle lying around and chucks it at this poor soul like 'NOT FUCKING NOW WESLEY’

I’ve apparently been the victim of growing up, which apparently happens to all of us at one point or another. It’s been going on for quite some time now, without me knowing it. I’ve found that growing up can mean a lot of things. For me, it doesn’t mean I should become somebody completely new and stop loving the things I used to love. It means I’ve just added more things to my list. Like for example, I’m still beyond obsessed with the winter season and I still start putting up strings of lights in September. I still love sparkles and grocery shopping and really old cats that are only nice to you half the time. I still love writing in my journal and wearing dresses all the time and staring at chandeliers. But some new things I’ve fallen in love with mismatched everything. Mismatched chairs, mismatched colors, mismatched personalities. I love spraying perfumes I used to wear when I was in high school. It brings me back to the days of trying to get a close parking spot at school, trying to get noticed by soccer players, and trying to figure out how to avoid doing or saying anything uncool, and wishing every minute of every day that one day maybe I’d get a chance to win a Grammy.

four

SS Fic - Sasuke Uchiha & Sakura Haruno.
A race against time for the one he loves most.
Rating: M (language, soon to be sexual content).

Chapter Four
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8


The natural light that seeped into the room reflected off the porcelain of her cup, and painted the wall with the iridescent colors. Sasuke watched her slender fingers curl around the mug, soaking up the warmth that seeped through the glass. His teeth casually chewed at the skin on the inside of his cheek, swallowing down the saliva that produced in his mouth. His mismatched orbs looked up to meet emerald when she cleared her throat; the tension in the room thickened.

“You haven’t said a word all day, Sasuke.”

He looked back down, away from Sakura, “I’m just thinking.”

Keep reading

Day Six: Holidays

They don’t really celebrate Christmas at the Watchpoint; there are too many traditions and holidays celebrated amongst the diverse cast to celebrate just one. They end up picking a day sometime in December where most members are present and together and just hang out in the largest common room available. There are a hodge podge of decorations strewn artfully about, and on some years, there’s a tree that’s also covered in a mismatch of traditions and cultures.

It was still a melting pot of customs, though. There were Christmas Trees and menorahs, little figurines of three kings scattered on table tops and mantles, lighted candles illuminating the hallways in their orange-yellow light as they burned through the night. Zenyatta loves the thing. “All these cultures coming together… it fills me with hope,” he quietly confesses to Genji once. It’s too early to be night, too late to be day. They’re sitting side by side, closer than Genji will allow most people and closer than most people are willing to sit by Zenyatta. The warm, candle-yellow glow given off by the lights makes the moment have a certain magic of its own. Genji has shut off his running lights so that way the bright green wouldn’t conflict. He doesn’t reply to Zenyatta’s statement, but he does place a hand on the omnic’s knee.

It gives him hope, too.

As time goes on, it shows that some of the agents are a little homesick. Foods traditional to their place of origin start appearing on counters and in the fridge. Most of these endeavors are started by Tracer; she thinks that making something old with new people can help stave off the worst of it. It seems to do her a world of good, at least, as she, Lucio, and Hana make candied nuts. Genji finds himself helping in many of these endeavors, his knowledge of cooking surprising to most people. He laughs because it’s a running trend that people underestimate his knowledge because of who (and what) he is and was. Zenyatta shakes his head in fondness as Genji teases them, leaving them a little bit bashed.

The most extreme result of this actually begins with Tracer. She’s not in the mood to bake anything, and there’s no one available to bake with anyway. So she just sort of sits in the common room and starts singing Christmas carols because, well, why not?

Soon enough Mercy finds her and joins her because they could all do with a bit of holiday cheer, and the more the merrier, right? After Angela it’s Ana, and then Lucio (who brings the instrumentals and starts projecting the lyrics for those who don’t know them), and then McCree, and Zenyatta and Genji and soon enough everyone is there, singing along to whatever comes up. It’s messy and out-of-tune and not at all together, but Lena is cheered and everyone is so bright with happiness it’s almost blinding.

It dissolves from Christmas carols into top 40s, and from there people have to stop and eat, but they all sit together because… well, it doesn’t seem right to leave just yet. Eventually that time comes, however, and everyone leaves in singles or pairs until it’s just Genji and Zenyatta in the common room suffused by warm candle-like light.

But Genji thinks his favorite thing is when Zenyatta sends his orbs to play gentle melodies at that strange hour that isn’t quite night, but not quite day either. Genji requires more sleep than his master, his brain is still mostly biotic, but he requires less than his more flesh based cohorts.

The yellow-warm candle light illuminates Zenyatta’s form as he floats in front of the tree posed in the corner of the largest common room on base. It’s probably the most mis-matched decoration of all, having the tree strung with electric candles and three kings figures and spiderwebs and candies (and, for some reason, a plastic pickle whistle), but Zenyatta seems to adore it. His orbs chime gently, small symbols appearing as the notes ring out.

For the first time, Genji feels the holiday spirit Lucio talks so much about; a spirit of goodwill and peace. In this moment, he is not just Shimada Genji, or cyborg Genji, but also just Genji. It is soothing, and Genji sits down next to Zenyatta. The omnic says nothing, but lowers himself to the floor, allowing Genji to lean on him. The orbs expand to include him in their orbit, and Genji doubts he’s ever felt as loved as he did then.

He feels the hope Zenyatta was talking about, too. If this group of individuals from all creeds and countries could learn to live and work together, maybe the rest of the world could to as well…

The two feel hope, and really, isn’t that what the holidays are about?

(The Pachimari pajamas Zenyatta is currently wearing is just icing on the cake.)

I’ve found that growing up can mean a lot of things. For me, it doesn’t mean I should become somebody completely new and stop loving the things I used to love. It means I’ve just added more things to my list. Like for example, I’m still beyond obsessed with the winter season and I still start putting up strings of lights in September. I still love sparkles and grocery shopping and really old cats that are only nice to you half the time. I still love writing in my journal and wearing dresses all the time and staring at chandeliers. But some new things I’ve fallen in love with – mismatched everything. Mismatched chairs, mismatched colors, mismatched personalities.

I feel crazy today. I feel
something tight against my ribs,
dead weight, lead melded into ache
to remind my lungs that my heart
can’t take it much longer.

I feel tired, as if sanity was
hanging by my eyelashes,
closing my eyes to the realities
I do not want to see.
Apathy as a sort of defense.

I wish I could pull my head
out of the water, clear away the
mismatching images, refracted light
that trip me over the simplest things.

Physics tells me that a change of environment
alters perception, alters behavior,
and isn’t that just the truth?

I feel sick today.
I feel like a farce, like a girl
who is still trying too hard to take
love into her chest, to let it live,
to hope it will break grief’s hold.
I hoped it would let me breathe.
—  I don’t know how to say what I mean (LM)
Runaway (Daryl Dixon imagine)

imagine: it is pre-apocalypse, but the world is just as bleak for teenage!Daryl. being his best friend, you support him through his decision to run away from home. based on ‘Runaway’ by Ed Sheeran. (2,012 words)

TW: domestic abuse, physical abuse, alcoholism, homelessness, running away from home. also some v v v light smut

lyrics from the song in bold. i really enjoyed writing pre-apocalypse daryl and i am definitely willing to write more pre-apocalypse twd imagines!! this song always makes me think of daryl’s home life, you should listen to it while reading. i hope you enjoy the imagine and daryl’s mismatching socks! - gabby

Originally posted by curious-tales-of-daryl-dixon

I squinted past the bright street light as my fingertips struggled to grab hold of the flaking paintwork of the window ledge I was reaching for. Slotting the toe of my boot into a familiar space in the wall created by a chipped brick, I managed to haul myself upwards and pull myself through the window and inside. I felt adrenaline pump through my veins as I smoothed the creases out of my clothes; I’d been sneaking through that window for years now, but each time felt increasingly thrilling. Turning the light on, I looked around the room; a few new sketches of motorbikes had been taped to the walls and I almost laughed at the lack of artistic skill behind them. Other than that though, the room was still as plain as ever.

My eyes fell upon the sorry sight of my best friend, his knees tucked up to his chest as he sat with his back against the peeling wallpaper of his bedroom wall. He obviously hadn’t heard me sneak in as he unashamedly let out a small sob, his head resting on the arms he’d folded over his trembling knees. 

“Daryl?” I whispered cautiously, taking a nervous step towards him. He glanced upwards in a moment of shock, his bloodshot eyes glistening with fresh tears. He rubbed furiously at his eyes and cheeks in an attempt to remove any evidence of a display of emotion, but we both knew it was too late; I had seen too much. “Is it your dad, Daryl?”

A forlorn nod from Daryl was all I needed to confirm my suspicions, but his older brother, who had evidently been listening into our conversation had more to say on the matter.

Known it for a long time haven’t we, little brother?” Merle’s voice was somewhat mocking as he entered the room, and I itched with annoyance at the way he was making such a serious matter sound like a joke. “Daddy wakes up to a drink at nine.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, sitting with his legs crossed and picking at a hole in his sock with the word “Tuesday” printed on it. I’d bought Daryl days-of-the-week socks for Christmas last year as a way of mocking his disorganisation, but the idea had obviously missed the mark as it was definitely a Friday. Usually, I would have laughed at the fact that his other sock read “Sunday”.

Disappearin’ all night,” Merle went on in that same infuriating voice. “Wanna know where I found him last night, little brother?”

I don’t wanna know where he’s been lyin’,” Daryl replied through gritted teeth, refusing to pay attention to his brother. Merle simply chuckled before leaving the room, not without slamming the door behind him.

A silence filled the dusty air of Daryl’s room as I sat down next to him, letting him rest his head on my shoulder. I ran my fingers through his hair which seemed less and less blonde by the day, gently massaging his scalp with my nails in a way I knew would calm him down. 

“Wanna talk about it?” I asked tentatively, feeling him sigh and sniffle slightly. Of course, being Daryl, he didn’t give me a yes or no answer.

I know what I’m gonna do,” he remarked, standing up abruptly and opening the closet next to the window I’d just slipped through. “I’m gonna run away with you, Y/N.” He pulled out an old backpack he once used for school from underneath a mountain of clothes in his closet. 

“Daryl, what about school, college applications,” I stammered, thrown by the notion. I watched as disappointment flooded Daryl’s face, which was soon replaced by determination. “Why can’t you just speak to your dad first, let him know how you feel?”

There’s nothin’ to say, ‘cause he knows,” Daryl mumbled, trying to hide his dismay as he grabbed clothes from the pile in his closet, scrunching them up and tossing them into the bag. “I’ll just run away an’ be on my own.”

My heart twinged with despair as I watched Daryl gloomily shove clothes into his backpack, and I felt a responsibility to accompany him. My parents would kill me, I knew that, but I suddenly felt the urge to rush home and pack my own bag. 

I’m gonna pack clothes, and when it’s morning, we’ll go.” I said with a small grin, watching a smile creep onto Daryl’s face. I kissed his soft cheek as I made towards the door, enjoying the blush that coloured his face. As I dangled my legs over the window ledge, I called out to Daryl through the window before I jumped. “By the way, you’re supposed to pack shoes first, dumbass.”


It was six a.m. and I was waiting for Daryl outside his house. I’d scrawled a note for my parents and left it in the kitchen, explaining why I was gone and that I didn’t think it would be long before I would be back home. I watched as the sky went from a dusky pink to a bright orange, and I took the time to admire and appreciate the beauty of it; part of me wished I woke up this early every morning, but the other part remembered my warm bed and shook off the notion completely. I yawned and checked my watch, which read 6:30 a.m. As he was already thirty minutes late, I decided to peek through the windows of his house to see where he was.

I peered through the window of Daryl’s kitchen and froze as I saw Daryl’s dad leaning against the kitchen counter, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. I almost threw up at the thought of drinking this early in the morning; I could barely stomach a bowl of cereal at this time, let alone a spirit drink. I watched tentatively as Daryl entered the kitchen, tugging anxiously on the straps of his backpack. Daryl’s dad looked his son up and down before laughing cruelly, cold as stone in the kitchen light.

How long you leavin’?” He asked before downing the remains of the drink in his hand. His voice was only just audible through the small opening in the window.

Well, dad,” Daryl mumbled, his gaze focused on the floor rather than his father. “Jus’ don’t expect me back this evenin’.” I ran back towards the wall in front of Daryl’s house as I he made his way towards the front door. I perched myself nonchalantly on the wall and tied my hair into a loose braid. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Daryl said as he approached me. “Was talkin’ to my dad.”

“Oh,” I acted surprised and hoped that I was doing a great job of pretending I hadn’t been earwigging on his conversation. “All okay?”

“As okay as it can be,” he breathed, pulling me up from the wall and onto my feet. 


In all honesty, I was bored. I’d assumed that running away would be exhilarating, but in reality we’d just been trekking through the woods for what felt like an age; Daryl wanted to show me where his go-to place when he needed to calm down. For some reason, he’d brought a crossbow with him, a present from Merle from a birthday years ago; I didn’t even know he had it, he said he’d never used it before up until now. I mocked him, claiming that there was no use for it and he might as well sell it and make us some money. 

“Shuddup, or I’ll put it to use,” he joked, pointing the weapon at my head and making me squirm. Eventually I convinced him to leave the weapon buried somewhere safe, I was worried that we’d get into more trouble if we were seen carrying a weapon around with us. I promised him we’d go back for it later.

We came to a clearing in the forest with a lake, I was surprised at how quiet and serene it was; I could get used to the absence of people. Daryl removed his boots and his (surprisingly matching) “Wednesday” socks to paddle in the shallow edges of the water. Something came over me, and I longed to add a bit of excitement into our journey, so I quickly stripped down to my underwear and ran frenziedly into the icy water, the cold biting at my skin. 

“What the hell, Y/N?!” Daryl exclaimed, a grin washing over his face. 

“Come and join me!” I yelled, before dunking my head underneath the water. “It’s pretty warm in here!”

“You’re such a liar,” he replied with a laugh, before beginning to unbutton his shirt. I looked away to make it less uncomfortable for him, and within minutes he was splashing me with water as he ran into the lake.

Once our immaturity had subsided, and we’d calmed down from splashing and spitting water at each other, somehow Daryl’s arms had ended up wrapped around my waist, and his lips were softly kissing my shoulders from behind. Shaky breaths escape from my between chattering teeth and left condensation in the cold air; I could not longer tell whether I was shivering from the cold or from Daryl’s touch as his hands roamed upwards and underneath my bra. 

“Daryl,” I turned to face him, ready to lean up to kiss him when my eyes were distracted by a deep cut across his shoulder. Before he could protest, I spun him around and gasped at the sight of his bare back covered in both old and newly formed scars and fresh welts, some of which still coated with dried blood. “Oh my god.”

Daryl pushed me away from him and swam towards the shore of the lake. I watched as he pulled his shirt back over his head, not caring whether it got wet or not. I made my way towards him whilst trying to cover myself up, my moment of confidence dwindling. 

“Why didn’t you tell me he hits you?” My voice was high pitched and unsteady.

I was raised to keep quiet,” was Daryl’s response, and with that he’d dressed himself and set off towards the road again, leaving me shivering in my underwear.


My watch read 01:46 a.m. but the train station clock read 01:49. After changing the time on my watch to match, I looked down at Daryl who was asleep on my lap, or so I thought.

“Why’re you still awake?” I whispered, my voice quietened by the wind rushing through the station and through our hair. I felt him quiver on my lap; our clothes were still damp from a combination of both the lake and the pouring rain we’d walked in. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, sitting up and rubbing at his tired eyes. “Kept dreamin’ that the world was gonna end, and realisin’ I wished that would happen.”

I laughed lightly and leant my head on the shoulder he was offering me. He ran his fingers through my hair in the same fashion I had done to him the night before, and I smiled to myself at his gentle touch. 

“If the world ends, maybe your stupid crossbow would become useful.” I joked, and we laughed weakly. Daryl’s expression clouded with embarrassment as I slipped my hand up his back and traced the injuries as lightly as I could. 

“It’s never gonna be alright, is it, Y/N?”

It could take a bit of time to heal this,” I sighed, nuzzling into his shoulder and enjoying the feeling of his fingers tangling in my frizzy hair. “But I’m always gonna be here for you.”

Both my watch and the train station clock read 02:23 by the time we’d snuggled into our sleeping bags and laid to rest on the cold floor of the station underpass. Of course, before that, we had plenty of time to share shy kisses; I fell asleep with a sense of completion as I accepted the fact that my best friend was now something much more.

[Temperance/Mal] Take out

“Three.” The word was accompanied by a showing of three fingers just in case her voice, muffled behind her medical mask, was completely drowned out by the bustle of a Friday night New York City. Three was the answer to the question ‘how many’, issued by the foreign man in the falafel cart and three was the number of falafel pita combos Temperance could afford at the moment.

Honestly, she wasn’t a fan of falafel. The texture of ground up chick peas wasn’t her favorite but it was the closest food cart to the subway stairs and Callisto always said it was always the safest to be nearby an opening to the tunnels, just in case.

During the day her baggy, mismatched clothes often gave away her social standing thus keeping most of the city’s residents away; both a blessing and a curse. But during the night without the blaring light of the sun, it was not so obvious that she was one of the city’s undesirables, and so she was starting to feel way too crowded by the sea of people moving around her. Too close. Much too close. Temperance glanced behind her to reassure herself that the steps were still there and felt instant relief. “$9.85”, her attention was called back by the vendor and she turned forward, fixing her hood before sticking her hand deep into the pockets of her pants to pull out what she had earned that day and then stuck out a closed fist holding tight a crumpled pile of singles and stray coins—mostly pennies to hand to the man. 

In exchange, aside from the vendors less than pleased expression for her method of payment, she got three containers, stacked and warm, smelling of delicious middle eastern spices, which she held close to her chest with both hands. Already feeling her mouth water, Temperance started quickly towards the subway steps, instantly feeling the anxiety from the pressure of being responsible for food that day melt off her person. The platters not only had the falafel pita wraps but sides of rice and vegetables too! That much food could feed seven if they evened the proportions right. In her hubris, Temperance descended the stairs with a skip in her step.

2

“I’ve apparently been the victim of growing up, which apparently happens to all of us at one point or another. It’s been going on for quite some time now, without me knowing it. I’ve found that growing up can mean a lot of things. For me, it doesn’t mean I should become somebody completely new and stop loving the things I used to love. It means I’ve just added more things to my list. Like for example, I’m still beyond obsessed with the winter season and I still start putting up strings of lights in September. I still love sparkles and grocery shopping and really old cats that are only nice to you half the time. I still love writing in my journal and wearing dresses all the time and staring at chandeliers. But some new things I’ve fallen in love with – mismatched everything. Mismatched chairs, mismatched colors, mismatched personalities. I love spraying perfumes I used to wear when I was in high school. It brings me back to the days of trying to get a close parking spot at school, trying to get noticed by soccer players, and trying to figure out how to avoid doing or saying anything uncool, and wishing every minute of every day that one day maybe I’d get a chance to win a Grammy. Or something crazy and out of reach like that. ;) I love old buildings with the paint chipping off the walls and my dad’s stories about college. I love the freedom of living alone, but I also love things that make me feel seven again. Back then naivety was the norm and skepticism was a foreign language, and I just think every once in a while you need fries and a chocolate milkshake and your mom. I love picking up a cookbook and closing my eyes and opening it to a random page, then attempting to make that recipe. I’ve loved my fans from the very first day, but they’ve said things and done things recently that make me feel like they’re my friends – more now than ever before. I’ll never go a day without thinking about our memories together.”

If I could only not be sitting here in this dark room.

If I could just be drinking in the neon lights of a mismatched city,
where the ghosts are made by us and our bodies
lift to the sky with reaching hands wondering if we would ever
touch the stars.

If I could only not feel as flat as the screen in front of me,
as lonely as the clouds full of rain
despite having each other as company.

I want to stop imagining things with my earbuds on,
I want to climb to the top of a tree and see a world
that looks so much larger from the ground.

We are all just wandering, making a path in the grass,
marking our crossing in this place as if it mattered.

I know I might not matter today, or tomorrow,
but at least I want to feel that I do.

—  The nights when I write are the worst / e.a
2

I’ve apparently been the victim of growing up, which apparently happens to all of us at one point or another. It’s been going on for quite some time now, without me knowing it. I’ve found that growing up can mean a lot of things. For me, it doesn’t mean I should become somebody completely new and stop loving the things I used to love. It means I’ve just added more things to my list. Like for example, I’m still beyond obsessed with the winter season and I still start putting up strings of lights in September. I still love sparkles and grocery shopping and really old cats that are only nice to you half the time. I still love writing in my journal and wearing dresses all the time and staring at chandeliers. But some new things I’ve fallen in love with – mismatched everything. Mismatched chairs, mismatched colors, mismatched personalities.

We are surround by a cloud of confusion. Yours is self-created, mine crafted by your mismatched words and actions. I wish for a day it all clears, leaving us with answers we’ve always craved. But a year without light has a way of making one forget what it feels to be warm. And, my god, I’ve been cold for so long.
—  (c.m.) // I just want to know where this is going.

The soul starts to talk to itself in the deep sleep of summer.
Under the light-flocked, mismatched spruce boughs,
It begins to know each other.
                                              The lonely half looks up at the sky,
The other stares at the dirt.
Who knows what they have to say,
                                           their voices like just-strung electric wire,
Constant, unhearable, but live to a single touch.

Charles Wright, from “Buffalo Yoga,” Buffalo Yoga: Poems (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2004)