smell of power and this the gift of what may be or may not
be a promise to hold the memory of you in the passing of flowers fading into
the story of how everything becomes new again
Friday, April 20, 2018
searching
rhythm of the line plumbing against the measured response of
belly and ache hiss along the spine when they find us in the throes of space
edges towards the infinite proliferation of maybe
drip
drip drip of something wet stirred by the fantasy of possessing or surrender of
choice cuts of me at the border of home and hearth fire instruments prodding
the flesh of the past and where are you now?
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