dove swept;

I haven’t slept.

And after the fact, I’m spinning and regretful,

like the tube sock soap bar—wielded, wove

and struck down to surface, landing like the

little dove.  Gets you numb after a minute.

And here we are right now:

she employs the cigarette with the pink stem.

­

Little beauty—off her jazzercise and yogic

quotes—isn’t this a chore?  Blow out and into

my fugue state;

you’ll be a fellow to the culling soon, too.

Lest you drop like the jackhammer,

swallow that familiar motif, & fill yourself with its rarity.

­

And while you, ooh, spill out all of that rose water,

release that smoke, let me pine over your utterances.

Figure I’d place my love here extemporaneously;

I’ll find the nook to place it in, nearer God: soon, too.

Locale is liminal when it comes to the heart,

stretched in everyone’s mind.

­

You do this and the thinking’s below you,

but I know your wonder.

You always said the pain was compulsory.

The suffering, though, that’s optional,

my little dove.

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January 8, 2024

“Locale is liminal when it comes to the heart/stretched in everyone’s mind.”

“You always said the pain was compulsory./The suffering, though, that’s optional.”

Ooof. So good. So much to explore in regards to the pain and suffering.