He settles me. The dampness quiets; in a little while
solfeggio remands our early light to an impromptu darkness. Anywhere
I look, he has already swept sadness away. I routinely leave the look where I
imagined. Whose soft petals of the yellow-orange daisies we will keep, for whose
sake? She was birthed to me, her name began with . . . in a dream I could see
each of them, alert, alive, and part of me. Weeds occur to target blossoms. I
recover what was left to me, and wall off the oncoming vehicles. Whose damage
prompts committee work where infancy is thought to hurry to our rescue. Here is
who we are among the woodwinds and percussion. Canvas, strokes of wax. The
prayer one ought to hold repeals agreement. Now indelible refrains, unmasked, give
way to an invented purity. I sort the strands as if inventing how they match
their former selves.
In-situ, rumored breathing, stasis as fanatical, regression therapy
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