A bowl of things, placed then left Where dust aggregates. Time drags on, but feeling does not appreciate
Sitting on your floor cross-legged Across from wax that burns, ready to hit the candelabra Try not to feel ragged, depleted And feel rich: with time, with love, with hate All repeating
A grasshopper, a spring, the trampoline Where we felt all those things
Draw everything to a close Tie it up tight and make sure there are no holes Bury it in the ground for some stranger So they can see what was left..