This rabble is a hive mind and I’m kind, yes I’m so kind, and that’s how we can relate to something special. I lean to the outer limits to feel the grope and grips of some form of kindness, and that’s how I will always remain. Turn your world inside out and vacuum pack the memories; they can stir you with bubbles, like a washing-up bowl. The innards are detestable and yet relatable as they bleed into a whole. Build a brick house in the garden where the butterflies can play and find a solid ground that takes the weight. This is where our secrets lay, with the spiders and the clay, with the jet washer and gazebo from last summer. Button down and make a living, look up and maintain the rhythm of a waking, virtue-laden cloud-shaped dream. Coffee grounds make shapes in a heavy, terracotta sink that I try to move with water to see your face. Before they run away, and clog another’s space, I chase them with wet fingers and then they’re gone.

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