Even nothing heals It ravels and unravels Then coyly coils up into a bow A present from the fringes of space
Waffling between hate and annoyance At the lack of access to anything else to feel A hot gust of flying ants and grass shrapnel Is how you should picture this
My parents made love in the chimney My brother wrecked Christmas My cousin is stuck on Easter Island Sometimes I see him on postcards screaming
It's the dust motes in the light That cats love to bat and wonder at Given each alone the mote or the light They couldn't care less
So much is still waiting behind the right combination, right?