Flattened. For serving. Travel to equaling
Epitaph. Noticing everything’s better
In fiction. Reality, gutter drips. No
Regret. Not in this entry. Why can’t
California produce a real storm? Then
I’d write honestly, honestly.
He talks about neighboring dreams.
I’m not in the room. His own table.
Toy affluence. Not even sure he hears
the rain, that rumble in tin gutter.
Just want to stare. Work progress,
Lagan. I blame him. His discrete area
Annexes my language, letters; my sense.
Never been like this. Thanks to critter.
No. See? I can’t think of words for him.