Wednesday, February 28, 2018


My love for this place
is less like a thing
and more like
a thing's container.
It's colored
a nice benign lavender—

safer than either of its
primary urges
but, proportionally,
shaded much more
to the blue side
than the crimson.

Which is to say,
it's not a space
that burns, or insists,
or requires. It prefers to stay
a little far away;
to keep cool,

to wear its sunglasses,
to just hang-
out—and twinkle.
But not like the moon
or a diamond
would do, either.

It's more plasmic
than that, silently fluid-
but-viscous. This
weird oozing cool
thing that I've somehow
grabbed a hold of for a minute,

this thing has
no edges, not so much
as a corner. It can't
be held or folded or turned
over. And it never will be