~ lost library books and broken lunchbox thermos, her childhood under a forgotten leaf on a pond. she's attracted to the sound of the breeze through her hair, inner-city birds recommending she listen with her head underwater, to experience it as a fish might. this is inescapable.
blood roses in the snow, her unemployed martyred fingers in the factory. the manufactured years go by at a price too great to recover from. for every flash of beauty, there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence. this is inescapable.
her sleep-flower recital in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital, some kind of faraway pink funeral for dead trees and traffic lights. treasure impaired clouds capture an isolated moment in time. perhaps several moments. perhaps several parts of the same moment. this is inescapable. ~