the ideas we forge are figments of our ideal reality,
flirting with pieces of firewood that haven't fallen victim to
slugs
and a winter too frigid to ensure development.
fireplaces are
visual, only
visceral in the right
heat.

why should we assume that the temperature will ensue the continuity of rivers? why should the dry creeks,
unseen but
unsipped
be simply sighted as resting grounds?

who ever claimed that sawed-off tree stumps or broken windows were casualties?

rhetoric is a vase made of steel and it doesn't give me any of the realities that i breathe in like
my sisters without water,
holding on to hope.