Living without a root, but
with a flower,
you know as well as i
is
a terribly large and
loud void. Let’s call it
hell.
do you see the pattern, do
you
blow your fuse when the ducks don’t
dry in order, when the towels don’t fold according to
your structure and form your
hair—which is
just a vessel
to appear beautiful and
annoy the senses, upon which the hair falls on
me?