See the power fade. Blue dots in the springtime blooms, see the thing go down. I believe in shadows where no one stands. Perfect likenesses on a silver wall, hitting thoughts of the day; on a shower of flowers, a bouquet looks so pretty and delicate for me but why does it doe so often. Cues from overseas friend’s laughter and a switch to another country, find new lands, be a new person.

 

        I keep shoving a bouquet under my door in case of unexpected lack of arrival. I care for a person, listen for a dream to count on, pick some desolate foundation, watch it crumble. Dusty streets fill my house, crashes mend a deep mortal wound for but a day. Sleep or a journey in my mind cures all the files. It piles up in the laundry shoots. Fills my sleep. Mumble, mumble, in my sleep. Where does it lead me. Keeping a lock safely. Stay at home. Listen for intruders. Parish at a fumbling handler who gives a damn though won’t tell you why it is that way. I sort through old steam letters grasping for some curtailment of my activities in order to slow down a poor old body. It listens. Understands. My particulars come into place, fill up the jars. A boating or grab bag lacquers stands to kill me or maybe

​

​