Knee-high in happy, clover honey bottle none, and I guess I’m glad I never let him put a needle in me. Flowers being meant to wilt. Skin to stretch over memory. At the first chance, day loosening, I gulp a sword made of sheer lace. I try not to laminate the past. Let her breathe. The grass is cheeky, elongating. Good earth through which to drag The Chariot. Purple and smells like rain. You’re still as earnest as your favorite color. If more like ripening. Laboring to tuck in a bed of almonds beneath a snow-sugar sky. The littlest things get the people fed and high. Still in pursuit of s(i)mmer, sounding leaping fishes, audio waves, some current-like The Roots, a reading in exchange. I fail at making moodboards, making them slap. My lists shiver. Tell me what: every shape and shade. I flex into the future. I told you once, listless, bunching up lilies before you brushed their centers, trying for life. Time & time. Once again, my friend, I feel for your shoulder, its opening, angelic circumcision. Surely Jesus saved for seconds. March is my biggest fan. Applauding, dissoluting, blossoms, petals for eyes, for days.
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