I taste drowsy indifference, presumed
miles to clarity.
fire is unique in these parts, loving
remains a conundrum.
I love prose. it seems fulfilling.
poetry is harder.
urns
ashes
cigars.
painting in acoustics, thrumming
sadness, made observant.
charity is a sacred discussion; alms
upon a clothesline, bibles under a microscope, scripture turned into
mathematics.
ministry is chemical
like luminous jelly fish, like gas,
like candle wax;
seeing it melt, a topic of
discussion, ink as meditation.
circles—round and round and round—through
mazes, December unto December, January unto November, many cyclones between.
no land for ownership, fretting on
a lease, rented, somewhere, anywhere, facing death, clocks, time made into a
monster.
needs
bleeding oils
daisies
celestial.
