a dimpled tooth

it's true I don’t spill over as much as I used to. I almost wanna say I didn’t grow. I didn’t show up smarter or with some new knowledge, it just happened to me.. this patience.. the shame associated with being me.. after the me that was.. the me that is… might criticize you as harshly.. and that is the truth and it feels like a non truth, not a lie but something that is invisible to my sight. something invisible throbbing a brand new time measure inside.. it’s a heart rhythm but who talks of the heart when there's work, and real time love.. real time discourse … concourse and the field hand is in the yard, fondlin’ that hen.. again. that shame has no home and no glue

we are still talking the fence and the mend, the moon and the archway her backbone becomes.. in all of us. I know it happens to you too..and although the spell may be written I’m starting to think about that spilled drink… I’m beginning to wonder what exactly I ran from and why I can see it everywhere.. ..

those paintings of you and the wishbone tearing of my original heart.. we don’t talk about the winter and the smell of the coming of winter nor the longing, the past post mortem longing of a winter’s length.

funny story about the empath and the inability to heal.. funny anecdote about the fire inside burning through the obstacle of opposites and the decision to return isn’t a failure and the city…