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a sign language instructor for trees, and getting National Security to stop monitoring steel bands. We are having a rally next Friday. It's about the breath of fresh roses in our tombs. Crook I needed to find the flesh behind the mirror, high tides full of clocks. His house had caught on fire. I offered my sky dome and a macramé hammock. He cut the moon's stem and rode off with my sun lilies all within a week. Like god 
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coming
and going in his perpetual dawn. God, with a herbarium. And What If and what if the clothes don't fit with comfort, does it matter, or is it a matter of why? what if I sit and quietly wait for the sun to return to my eyes, eyes that have swum in steam where roses loosen their oils. what else could I do? and what if I collect teardrops, which I do, what kind of misty river would you see? what if my shadow finds the wind that brought us together. I could borrow  |
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