It does not equal a ¼ cup, a soft boil, a bird in a hand. If one of the two bluebirds we saw flee
blurs iridescent after meds— the sun’s dry-light sleeking drab. The pain-body sings musty as a moth-wing-tongue, calls you into the room with coffee and
“The act of running ones fingers tenderly though somebody’s hair.” (Brazilian Portuguese). I’ll take fifteen minutes to put on the rain while you jazz,