tacos are clear. I check the bathroom
financials and think about eternity savings time.
A poetry I haven’t written is this tree I travel
to the lightning I lost. It’s like a cut-off cushion
under the sun-puffed clouds and I like it. It makes me
whole. I lost last night in the corner of the park next to
a meal I couldn’t eat. It was the tree in me.
An ochre chrysanthemum.
