Me? As soon as method far in time in a village coiled from stone
I met an elder in a teahouse. He proposed, and I stated sure
I’ll be a part of you, and we walked collectively to the seller of recent hearts.

I purchased one, an olive, a fats one, did as I used to be informed,
set it on my tender chest close to the place my birthmark is
and once I flew house and kissed my youngsters

one sniffed up “dandelion” and the opposite hmmmmed “wild grass.”
A buddy stated since that journey I give my time simpler,
that my my bads and sorrys have a ghee-ish butter really feel.

Look, you’re the buddy who stated I share time freer, so that you
know the olive labored; so my expensive one, as I sit right here
at your bedside consoling when you sweat out in your

nightgown-jellied grief, let me select. For you?
A sweet-tart pomegranate, prongonat, combo lung and coronary heart.
Environment friendly pumper for the hiccup sobs to return.

It’s even lovelier when damaged—and complete? Thug-tough.
Not like Evie’s Purple Scrumptious, when slit doesn’t air-brown.
Buddy, why wouldn’t you need to have in you

self-parable, hive of glammy seed coats simply embedded
not caught? I ought to inform you as you brow-twitch on this dim room’s
lily scent, babes, when a brand new hub begins its sink-in, fuck, it burns,

and coughing up the outdated one with its huck pneumonics isn’t good,
however the godheart can’t dwell by way of abscission. The way it goes, I’ve heard,
you’re out part-fine then brown anthurium leaf drops in your shoe.