This is what we do now Con/Jur/d, 5/18/2022 Our eyes idly trace two black power-cords belonging to very different devices ends hidden in the snarl we can’t tell them apart Even after our birthday one which felt worrisome they called us kid, even though for 40 years, and then some, if you count the kalpas, and the accreting moments when time ceased and we slid back and forth across the object, tree-like leaf-like, branch-like roots planted firmly in the firmament of our beginning, our middle and our end , friends called us Old Man and although later we found an explanation Because, Because, Because the focus on the ending threw us off balance excusing those lies, we use to forget what is, sunlight on water, moss-covered trunks green variegated leaves, birds call through darker pollen coated needles, emerging from early morning fog nothing after nothing before we settle into this.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 5/18/2022