But it’s good. A place to start. Drips on the sill. Stop. Inward. Not out. If possible. Where we are. What to sacrifice. To cultivate. Sometime. The work gets done. And you don’t even realize. Which streams will lead to the ocean. Hard to concentrate. With. This. Silence. In her travel journal. The dance books of bees. The work of decades. Thousands of millions of minuscule parts. When it rains one way. Drips here. Drips there. This hat won’t do. For a deluge. But my new favorite ink. Finally this life back in stock. Through smudges. Hard to account for the grown-ups. So few. The grass grows long. The doctor appointment. Your signature. And here. To drill down to this moist moment. Forget about the moment. Breathe more drink less. You’re nearly arrived. That sound in your ears. Can be safely ignored. Stars are stunning. In the other room. A silver fish already knows. The weight of his decision. After tea. Which ones need question marks. And maybe if this season’s colors suit you. Forever and a couple of days. Don’t say it’s nonsense before you read it. The hair clipped just so. Forwards and prefaces were her specialty. And behind the couch. Where the mandolin was stored. A clear or colored gem. Which was built to the specifications. But ultimately

one day maybe we can breathe in this smoke


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