if your buried name feeds flowers or wasps or nothing at all.
All day there is bread on a board, and a book's pages rolling with the breeze.
There is rain and minutes dying and both the best and least of these...
The things I placed on velvet, in a box
as children or idiots do, with fistfuls of forget-me-nots
staining fingers blue, as ink will do
when spilled across pulped pages, entre nous...
It doesn't matter whose way
is the less foolish one
or which moon
will rise on the ash of a setting sun.
_______
for micro-poetry.
