i believed


like, first, outsider artists and in memory of molly.  the whole making of milk.  i need to pull out my papers.  we were barely 20 somethings, painting on warped wood.  she was a sailor, a hero, a heroine.  before i knew the difference, before i knew

the importance.  the skin blistering welts of white sun, high july                                     sweat like swamp breath, mudflats, sulphur muck dripping into squinted eye

so, that’s where i’d begin.  how do i make that equate, make sense with? penguins.  i am in your cave again–they mate for life. chthonic.  somehow you mix up w the cutey i could see myself with in another life.  parallel lines running off towards some infinite universe from here?  the brain wash the uspide down.  i talk to mother mary when i’m nervous, mama nature when i cannot sleep. you’re chill, you say, just down for companionship i hear you explain and catch on the fact that your folks–moved to a tax free state–are still together.  good news?  absentee fathers, in the words of silent ann, the original sin

so i’m not a man.  so i have caves where i can go.  so i buried more than one before that was norm, so the birds talk tar squawk & i’m fluent, i guess, in crow.

the sun is out again, memorial to fog, written backwards still don’t spell god

granma mist, queen of birds, effigy mounds &

taking risks. i’ll do this again, if it’s what i need.  through it i’ll go, i believe it bc it’s clear and clean as still water i can see all the way through

if only that meant i believed.

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