We know we live again and again when bright spots sprout into whole bodies of fettered blossoms. Music from sounds of outside become less about slush, as the wet grass creates symphonic copulation for indoor and outdoor playtime.
We know we live again and again when loss becomes graphic and wanted in the palatable wagers of exchanged spirits. Nothing ever seems completed when buds refresh into livelier stock than before.
We know we live again and again when foxtails brush away leftovers on plates that held monumental promises, that now seem so cunning when retrospective guidelines dish out new order. We’ve been here before, and we know how it goes when longer days and shorter nights evoke dizzying need for more.
We know we live again. Life ends to begin anew in the dew of perfumed soil that glaze spread out thighs, giving canals of birth another chance to try again