it can’t be
phoenix life, presumed in existence, clothed in condition.
each tile is
different, losing, gaining, webs made of wildness.
soft comforters,
human cares, weary, harmed, made careful.
you walked in,
bones were on the couch, ants on the table. you paused, you felt concerned,
craving identity. the room had a stench. you searched the house. you didn’t see
her. you called the hospital, granny was safe, your heart un-sank.
little things,
more substance, many actions, more attractions. supple features, bodily aches,
the moon is comforting.
to disappear, as
if, many aren’t afire inside; gravity, graves, dying keeps getting closer; much
dread, many fevers, anguish is needed, many desire uneasiness.
more want
happiness, until exhausted, until happiness leads to closed curtains. to prefer
one, over another, where, we need balance. too much kills, too little makes for
mercy, the hopes of the hopeless.
