every day is accompanied by a body that is not of my own making but of my own making
dripped
in
extraordinary time
a vessel myrtle'd each spring between the somnolent and the rain why oh why are we waking just as we tire from the ordinary, why is this not the face i believe to be mine but that of someone much older and not yet laced with wisdom bolder but infinite and golden
wire wrapped in every joint & sinew this sharp reminder of mortality echoes against the bloom of april
against the spark of tenderness that the robin sings so easily of ....
