Did you notice, this whole time you've been working to an inevitable closure of wounds you've been tending with the intuitive brilliance of a flower unfolding; of a child's fist in its mouth and a newborn foal's legs left quaking, wet and well-covered by fluids and spit licked up like a soup and his body the spoon–? I am all that I have dreamt without spreading spoke words from out these scattered hopes of dreams we've left while swimming up and down a beckoning coast deep in the dark of our regret that land holds both the promise of life and its demand of feet, which we are still sourcing the limbs for; returning at will to the wealth of a fantasy we'll wash up in their flesh and am nothing if not as yet beautifully felt while walking down yesterday's streets in the visage we've spun out of long pent-up thoughts, believing one day I would get up this step– am now skipping and sure I have been doing just so this whole time.
