images brim
inside my
lonely, worried head.
things.
all the
t h i n g s
need
to be done
all the time.
i know.
but i
petrify
like a tree slip;
now tipped over,
asked to lay down;
horizontal to this,
death's opened fist.
and then,
all those lightyears
spooled along the edge of the rush
come lit with a sound
so furiously felt
it -somehow- passions forth
a small being, breathing
from ways milky forever.
and i
place it,
upright,
in the palm of your
hurt hand,
semi-curled openshut, and
sorta tilted;
as if to say, idunnoifishould..
... but you do know.
and it will grow up
and down
and around,
where it will thrive till shone tumble and wilt.