Wednesday, September 28, 2016


Hypotheses? Place-holders. This:
those seemingly inarguably accurate
and weightless shots that scheme
to capture bliss, do catch a little grace, 

then fall through space like boulders
in an avalanche, or fade to mist. Root
leads to tree and branch which holds
a fruit which if not plucked to eat, will drop

to rot – but eat or not, will rot. Conjectures
breed from every seed and sometimes
bloom – then bleed to death (the destiny
of every thought and breath): clearing

room for cunning new hypotheses –
perhaps, in fact, my little buttercup
(if fact there'll ever be), to wait for God
or you or me to sneeze another up.


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