We start here.
The smell of wet paint
Grout on tile
Ripened peaches sit soft
I am blossoming.
Again,
Putting nails in the walls
Hanging picture in frame
Batting eyes at
Vintage
Ceramic
Glasses
Making plans
Burning bridges
Interrogating sounds
Sequestering the books away
I will never be what I do not know.
Remaining efforts to pursue
The denial of it all
In perpetuity,
The beginning is always the end.
