it's May but all hot soup hot tea hot sweater vest, trick of light increasing blue of eye, blue of stone, blue balloon of wandering around, blue cluster leftover from another holy Wednesday, make you a medicine bulb with true fingers and sure, some ritual should cross over, the blue that comes after plus those specific places the color moves in your face, blue spilling out or over making words tumble around stuck gears, oil's blue reserve ribboning through the unlikely machine tasked with designing alternative couplings. all the outliers have their heads together now, a fist full of unripe dandelions with flower crown dreams. what we do the most is sway.
i am suspicious of enduring forms
but fond of clustering. yes, i accept all forms of devastation and promise to feel them right through the soles of my feet, i keep loose roots just for these occasions. i keep my touch careful but sure, knots notwithstanding. if we've ever met i've already imagined us rolling across the floor toward each other. tell me the mistakes so i can chew them up, if that will mean the static resumes a viable tone, if that can postpone the after. hoya's told me not to photograph her, it stunts the vine. i wonder if there's reaching next.
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