Right Before the Efflorescence

The sleeping body is unperterbed, untouched.

We keep

skidding into Fridays

reasonably engaged 

as an excuse to not address fundamental flaws:

daily bread's lack,

sap, mud, unpleasant smells of transition.

Sing that old song:

Guy gets girl, crowd gets entertained, 

it's a lunatic who can't shut up.

What promise 's a touch of your hand

feel the blood rush, see

maybe I don't blush, but sigh

holding memory like a path up a mountain

the alkaline night sky all rough with stars

why dedicate yourself to the unsafe when you can 

ascend a tomorrow full of yesterdays?

soft as a nest

when it's March

I renew my subscription to patience