How Can I Assemble All The Flowers Into Something More Than Just A River?

Ever so minutely delicate, I can still feel the pink digits of day’s beginning rove through my hair. In corners, in homes with loneliness, who will weird out the pretty sources of love? Trust, in raindrop form, is the comeback’s exoskeleton.

In my search for meaning I am always alarmed, never surprised. Rapt in booming vestibules of the past, I keep finding more animal habits, more thickening games, more careful meaningless gestures. Many instruments intended to produce laughter barely suffice for groping.

So there’s me, bleary-eyed and coaxing. I wonder through the simple days, loose-jawed and without handles, avenues plush with brass tacks. The grey and green of it all is getting brighter, as I practice non-avoidance.