or for some necessity is this
sapling
a thing so small and lovely,
growing in a field of knowing
less.
whose fey protest is growing
less effective. And on the
middle—bottom of
hand-printed list on paper:
"be implicit less," "seem to
disappear,"
but don't. I love your slowly
going, out of sync maneuvers,
stolid conversations.
Your "Here, please hold this."
Shivering in cold outside of lust.
distinct
mistrust between us. Large
black felt pieces holding on to
bits of fluff
and covering up with two coats
of paint, as opposed to just picking
them off.
burnt in a mind, but the future's
enough
that's discouraging
for new growth.
