page 26

by body sick
by body take;

it thinks it can
oh how mistaken it is.

this face, worn and tired,
but what mimics Death was never born;

what is born is what stays---
what keeps close---untouched.

by body sick
by body take;

a smile is what
stays--what i make.

:::

Your story, You write for me,

is written in blades of grass,

in specks of sand and mineral.

butterflies quill with their wings.

clouds check spelling

and sprinkle in fate commas.

may i not forget the boardwalks;

the lines by which words lay

and the ocean,

whom whispers in additional paragraphs

flowing through chapters.

seasons are merely volumes.

let this library become

without ever opening a page.

:::

You pray more when You want to

give up on me;

so many Hello's unanswered.

i am sorry, but look around:

     i will, through the mud, be

     a lotus knocking soon.