there is a place called violet beginnings
beneath the shoulders blades
i breathed upon -- weavings of honey, lavender,
and soil -- gripping my expectations of life like reins;
watery half globes form from my thought of absence
and the feeling of my legs sprinting
through dandelion sweeps
and wind caresses. there is a way
to abandon these memories, to strip yourself
of any lost feeling, a coined exchange
for the desire to find something easier to stomach.
there is a way to render yourself motionless; i
am looking for the ignition.