The wretched treachery of the flesh
is a sip of nectarine tea in the shade of a willow,
a reoccuring dream,
a for sale sign in front of a derelict funeral parlor.

Inroads to wisdom
are just slopes to slip off of,
off into open air to elope with
unknowing; the oldest whirlwind ever to be tricked into a jar.

Really it’s all just counting stars like heartbeats
and then taking them for granted.

Im sorry for that ****.