les charmes de l'horreur n'enivrent que les forts

I’m not writing about the wisteria because I’m concerned about the heart murmur in the berry bush. My least favorite flower is a freeway, my least favorite freeway is a wall. Once I took a nap in a field of bees and all my dreams were sweet and buzzing. How can we pollinate the earth if we’re all asleep? Let me tuck myself into the bee balm, let me, like a treefrog, fall asleep on a leaf. The sky is a novel rewriting itself with clouds. I’m not writing about the sky because there’s an inchworm on my coffeespoon. What are we measuring out today? The size of a waxwing’s heart is the same size as a lie. But what else can the birds do, the wisteria is also dying, and still they sing and sing and sing.