Frog00301

morning lifts to the smell of oranges he enters her eyes, a stranger waving away               her dreams, which are thick and rough-skinned as the               carpet beneath her soles                                           she is getting up,                                           clinging to the up                                           because down is a quiet fruit that she'd rather not peel alone

mothers, if they knew wouldn't want poetry children they are born far away, the blood already calm and running because when the eyes open the heart opens the hands open and all of a sudden everything is frighteningly open yet a poet child survives, harbored from streets and winter— the first wail is protection from openness; no mother would refuse offspring closure, or pluck tiny lips from her breast (clever obscurity for a few more years from crayon-bred verse and mascara dribbled into lacy black stanzas) if I were a mother, I wonder, would I peel forth such strange fruit, so that there is not even a shad

His eyes widened and he started for the door, before turning back. "Don't go near her!" he pointed to the Master, referencing Rose. "You hear me? Don't touch her! Don't even look at her!" Then he rushed out. A short Asian woman named Tosh lead him into another room. Rose followed. "All aliens get a full medical scan." She brought him into a lab and started running her tests. About an hour later, she was almost finished when she glanced up at the clock. She swore, and then looked over at Rose. "I told Owen I would be home an hour ago. Do you think you can finish up here? We just need a blood sample." "Sure." she answered, getting the stuff