No One Wants to Grow Fur Anymore is not dead. In fact, here's the poem that closes the third book inside the book. That third book, What I Did On My Summer Vacation, is comprised of unreleased poems and outtakes, with a smidgen of new material. I wanted something new to close it out. And here it is, finally complete.

Hello.

From where I stand
I could lift one finger
and blot you out.

Were I to draw closer
it would take less effort
still.

Still,
when all is said and done, who
will have been the better thief?

Building ramparts from stone and wood,
or carving them from words and air,
either way, things are safer past the reach
of a single finger.

Safer for which of us,
I don't care to discuss.

There are merely moments,
adhering to the script, saluting your image.
Each stone, inscribed, says
just like every cell we've ever shed

–I'm in the wrong place
but you're not–

and we kaleidoscope between these
two vague locales
forever.

Forever and
always.

Always, the line never consummated.
Lovers of and in the mind.

The words turn into so many lovely colors,
all there to test what we have learned.

What we have learned.