there is so much time
to be spent it’s hardly worth mentioning,
but we know it now. it’s written
in our skin. in the membrane between our
selves the rises and troughs we collate.
i am taking my situation as the truth like everyone else here.
petals on the ground were never made
to be on the bough for long, but that’s a papery reason
for respecting gravity. there’s a talking post
we’re supposed to meet at. i like
the duplicitousness of my station in life. here –
this hole you’re listening with, fit a tongue to it and ring.
my bell you were a song and then the quiet way out after. no one has to know.
they say this like it’s a menace. like the reference
to collapse will stall it, just through naming.
and the fruit that is cursed will grow mold
at a rate specific to the volume and vitriol of the curse.
meaning we are better served silent, maybe?
how a garden receives the holes, too.
no one built for letting down the hair of the trees like a wind does.
each season barking its number. the lotto drawn
for all the day’s rotational placement.
say you walk up the grace, wake up the grass, are woken up.
the sheer nature of a cliff is such that
falling will occur. mentioning that there will be
something coming from a point in the distance.
fixed now, our habitual scan of the horizon in wait for this.
they say you will not know and by saying this
they remove our knowing – what is un-possible.
like a curt exit, the emotional quota granted
to a symbol. i am affecting change, the double
dreamed spring remnant says.
it has a look about it, like it likes to like things.
take the stick before it errs. and put it down.