Should I tell that tree to stop being
Or the scent of laundry drying
The feel of
Hot cement beneath my feet
The smell of artesian water
Dank with frogs blanket green
The sound of a windmill groaning
Or a Willy wag tail cursing
At 3am
The heat
The stars
The smell of dusty grass
Of hardwood stairs
White painted ends
Splinters beneath my thighs
Digging in
These things will be
And I’ll be me
We are loaded weapons walking
And bullets aren’t free
*least of all to ourselves. I write.
Header photo: the booglie hole, a memory of childhood captured years later. It looked so much smaller, everything did.
