a dull and cyclic shimmer
on the surface of a slow
life, an evaporation held under
the fingertips of passage.

priority, like the flow
of days ain't matter
much.
the mind reels.

importance once was mulch,
out in the garden.

this new foraging-ground,
syllables, all good exists
as the shadow of action. all
evil lies in the same stroke.

under heaving clouds, dissolving
we, sway with or without purpose.

say you knew certainty,
for i can barely imagine truth.

a small & flittering day.