at 23, … not forty

[dedicated to … b-ka]

never she said, I felt never was real it was a french pattern that you wouldn’t initially recognize; now would you; she said skating in a twirl that look so wandish

Are you wandish; he laughed brazenly like a tall giraffe and the fern was vivid wasn’t she totem’d

hi there, he smiled; it’s nice to see you.

I realized at 23 I’m not forty.

the flower was steady a fore-print of life; I glazed by it staring such as I forgot myself and then the dream turned into a form: sunlight blinding me to the

wham across my brick skull; bricks don’t break that way;

they just loosen a bit; everyone knows,

sometimes when they fling; they are suprising, flowers I mean they are softening;

you know push out and all of that stuff:

a face,

finally three spoons of sunlight form, It’s what I…